


Fundamental Attribution Error

by Atsadi



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, CA:CW-Critical, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Eventual Happy Ending, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Families of Choice, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Gore, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Legal Drama, M/M, Major Character Injury, No Thanos Cop-Out, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protectiveness, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Sokovia Accords, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, Team Cap-Critical, Therapy, Thor Is Not Stupid, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Trust Issues, United Nations, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 18:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 87,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6918679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atsadi/pseuds/Atsadi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When we do things, we always have a good reason. It’s other people we see as defective.<br/><sub></sub><br/><sub>After the civil war, everyone is left living in the new reality they've created, and now they must figure out if they're willing—or able—to try again at being a real team.</sub><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fundamental Attribution Error

**Author's Note:**

> Don't mind me, I'm just working out my emotions about the film.
> 
> Disagree with me if you wish, but I think Steve fucked up massively and I like to think that it's not, you know, because he's a Bad Person or even a Bad Character.
> 
>    
> (Summary, tags, etc. edited because this story has changed _significantly_ from my original plan...)

 

_**Fundamental attribution error** : The dual tendency of observers to underestimate the impact of situational factors and to overestimate the influence of dispositional factors on a person's behavior. ___

____

 

**•**

 

“Captain, has anyone ever told you that you were wrong?”

Steve dragged his attention away from the phone in his hand and the newsfeeds he tortured himself with daily, looking over at the king with the soft, open expression of a person caught off-guard. “—Highness?”

The king just looked at him. He had a strange gaze that fell somewhere between a stare and a cursory glance, as if you were at once the center of his attention and yet also a curiosity presented to him without context. They sat side-by-side on the leather couch before the stunning panorama of Wakanda at sundown, silence pervading.

Steve cleared his throat and set his phone down. “Bucky used to tell me when I was being an idiot,” he said like a verbal shrug. “Peggy was always willing to cut me down to size.”

T’Challa kept looking.

Steve frowned at him, unsure. “Are you telling me I was wrong?”

“That is not why I asked,” T’Challa said gently, searchingly. Steve was left to wonder if he had given the king his answer or not. “Why did Sam join you?”

“He disagreed with the idea of U.N. surveillance,” Steve replied frankly.

T’Challa’s brow dipped into a deep frown so fleetingly that Steve wondered if any baseline human would have caught it. “And why was it that he joined you in protecting Barnes?”

“He—” To his dismay, Steve found a knot of hesitation blocking his words. Sam didn’t deserve to be doubted like that, but… “I don’t really know. We never talked about it. He just—”

“Followed Captain America into the jaws of death?” T’Challa asked, sounding wry. His lips curled at the taken-aback look on Steve’s face. “Yes, I watched the cartoons, Captain.”

Steve sighed and shook his head, saying more or less to himself: “Of course they did.” Of course they actually ended up using the line that Falsworth threw out once as a joke when a reporter pressed them for quotes. The Commandos had all given it its proper mocking, and now it was having transcontinental influence? On royalty?

“The Captain Rogers of those cartoons was a rather extraordinary man,” T’Challa continued, finally shifting his gaze from Steve to the omnipresent fog outside the window. “All those who choose to oppose his shield—”

“—Must yield,” Steve chimed in when T’Challa left a slight pause for it. “You a fan, Your Majesty?”

T’Challa subjected the luscious jungle view to his scrutiny for a few moments more, then spoke softly without turning. “I do not care for fictional heroes, Captain. I admired the real Captain Rogers.”

Steve ducked his head in a quick thank-you.

“I acted rashly after the death of my father. I have forgiven myself for this,” T’Challa confided, though the way he said it did not seem like a confidence. He presented the two statements as facts, and Steve waited for the rest of the argument to be presented. “I acted on poor information, and your friend could have died at my hands. I refused to consider the consequences of my actions until it was almost far too late, and I believed the very worst of your friend on the word of others. These are not the traits of a leader.”

Steve couldn’t fail to notice the censure, but he did try to listen to T’Challa’s speech. “What are the traits of a leader, then?”

“You tell me, Captain.” T’Challa finally turned to look at Steve out of a little more than the corner of his eye.

“A good leader is a good man,” Steve said, then amended: “A good person. They listen to the people they lead, and they protect the people who need to be protected.”

“You see yourself as a protector, then?” T’Challa prodded.

Steve’s hand clenched against his will, tightening against the strap of a shield that was no longer present. T’Challa clearly noticed the motion, but kept his silence. He looked at Steve with a question in his eyes, giving Steve the choice.

“I gave it up,” he said through his teeth, then calmed himself and looked out the window at the murky landscape. “I hurt Tony. More than—more than was…. I was angry. I… acted—rashly.”

“I am not trying to lecture you, Captain.”

“You aren’t?” he burst out angrily. “Forgive me, but what are you doing then, Your Highness?”

“I am talking to you, Captain Rogers.”

Steve snapped his mouth shut, wondering if he had ever really been a leader at all. “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know if anyone has ever told you that you were wrong.” Steve grimaced at him, trying to say without petulance that he had already answered that question. T’Challa shook his head slightly. “Not if anyone has teased you about being wrong, or corrected you when you became arrogant.”

“Arrogant?” Steve heard himself saying without an actual thought process behind it.

“You fight, Captain. You are an excellent fighter. And I know that you have spent most of your life fighting simply to be listened to, or to be seen.” Steve swallowed an old lump in his throat. “You were given the opportunity to lead, but you were not given the tools. The serum,” he added, sensing Steve’s protest. “Your strength, all of it is nothing to a leader.”

_Not a perfect soldier._

“But people often do not understand the power of weakness,” T’Challa continued, rising gracefully to his feet and slinking over to the enormous window, where he fell into parade rest. “You told me once that Barnes’s return has made you feel like yourself more than you have since you were awoken.”

“What are you saying, Your Majesty?” Steve asked tersely, falling back on the honorific as he was fully aware of how he must otherwise sound.

“That Captain America was found in the ice, but that Steve Rogers was found in James Barnes,” T’Challa said firmly, still gazing out the window. Steve felt like a hand rested on the back of his neck, pulling the hairs there against the grain and leaving behind an imprint of sweat and blood. He slumped forward and linked both of his hands behind his head, rubbing them roughly against his skull, trying to remove the ghostly presence.

“That you were frozen, and rediscovered, and now are frozen again alongside your friend,” the king continued gravely, letting Steve have the dignity of being ignored.

“What do you want?!” Steve shouted finally, slamming both fists down on the leather beside his trembling thighs.

His shout was absorbed by the soft flooring and the gentle acoustics of the hallway. The jungle did not hear him. He and T’Challa existed in the silence of Steve cracking open like the earth around Sokovia, there in the hallway of the wing that had been given over to the five fugitives. T’Challa called them his guests, and Steve wondered if they weren’t more his protected. “Your Majesty,” he finished, overcome with self-awareness.

“Hello, Steve,” T’Challa said, incongruously, and Steve stared mutely at him. “You are awake.”

_But a good man._

“You are a protector?” The king asked him again, far more firmly.

Steve shook his head.

“Then why do you carry a shield?”

“I don’t—” He paused to overcome what threatened to grow into a sob. “I put it down. I’m not a protector.”

“Why?”

“Tony—I hurt Tony. I told myself… that I was protecting him. That it didn’t matter now anyway. But I was protecting Buck—myself. I couldn’t think of what—” His words were cut off at the wellspring, a metal fist tightening around his throat. The sound of the shield striking the helmet of the armor, for no reason other than that Steve wanted to see Tony’s face—his pain, his anger, to refuel himself and feel… _feel_ …

Instead, he saw fear. Horror. Wide, bloodied eyes looked up at Steve – the shield came up behind his head and clanged down against Tony’s chest with all the force of Steve’s mutated genetics. Crunching through the armor—and as the arc reactor flickered like it had years ago in New York, Steve felt like he was watching Tony fall out of a portal he had ordered closed while he stood below and watched for the inevitable crash. He felt, in that moment when the electric light first flickered in his eyes, like he had been reborn. But he was still living in the new world that he had made.

“Who do you protect, Steve?” T’Challa asked.

He shook his head. “I can’t protect anyone.”

“Steve Rogers,” the king said, in a low voice. “Who do you protect?”

“The little guy,” he forced out. “The ones who need protecting.”

“And what if they do not wish for your protection? Do you protect them anyway?”

“Yes.”

“Do you decide for them that they need to be protected, and do it for them no matter the cost to you, or to them?”

Yes!”

“If they fear you: if they look at you as if you were a monster. If you sacrifice their free will and their right to choose, do you protect them?”

Steve was shaking. His hands clenched against his thighs until he felt his ragged short fingernails press into his palms, but they just weren’t long enough to dig in and draw blood and he clenched them tighter and tighter, looking for the pain, looking for the _consequences_. Tony’s brown eyes stared up at him in fear, and he did not feel like a good man anymore.

“And what lengths would you go to to protect the people you care for, Steve? Would you die for them? Would you kill for them?” Steve was beyond the capacity to answer. They both knew the answers already. He let T’Challa’s words break over him like waves in a storm. “Would you hate them? Would you fight them?”

Steve looked up, still quaking like an underwater current but with eyes as dry as ice. “I would fight them.”

T’Challa nodded grimly. “Would you tell them that they are wrong?”

Steve nodded faintly, still staring up at T’Challa whose hands were behind his back and whose chest was held up high with pride that Steve had been faking for—for…

“Would you come running if they needed you?”

“I would. I said I would. I said I would come.”

“Would you listen to them?”

Steve had no answer. The answer was obvious, and yet he could not make the words form themselves in his mouth. Of course he would listen to them. If the people he cared for spoke, he would hear them. But would he listen? Had he listened?

“I can’t fix this,” he gasped up at T’Challa, his lungs bubbling with a feeling like asthma, like powerlessness. Nat was right. He had kept both hands resolutely on the wheel and driven their car off the side of a cliff, and now he was left in a ravine with no clue how to rescue himself or his friends. They had followed him. They had trusted him.

“Captain America cannot fix this,” T’Challa agreed. “The man whom his teammates followed into a civil war will never return from here.”

“He’s already gone,” Steve choked out, his vision becoming spotty and he was aware that he was hyperventilating now because his brain remembered asthma but his body did not and his lungs were like bellows beneath a snapping fire, just following orders—

“Stop this,” T’Challa commanded, appearing before Steve with his grey suit and white shirt. He lowered himself solidly to one knee and Steve gasped at him—

“Don’t, don’t—”

“I am king,” T’Challa reminded him absurdly. “I kneel for whomever I choose.”

“Not me,” Steve said faintly.

The king’s hand landed heavy on Steve, with the ring signifying his royalty settling right between his shoulder blades. Steve had dropped his head between his knees so that now his hair brushed against T’Challa’s silk tie.

“You do not order me, Captain,” he said, and his voice was so warm Steve wanted—someone else, violently, for such a long moment that he forgot to breathe, and he wasn’t sure whether it was someone he had fought beside and over… or beside and against.

“Steve,” T’Challa rumbled, and Steve remained slumped against his own thighs, eyes clenched shut. “This is not beyond repair. But you cannot go back unchanged and expect a new outcome. Why do you fight?”

Steve couldn’t answer him right then, but T’Challa didn’t seem to want an answer at all.

“When you know why you fight, you will know who you stand against and who you stand by,” the king continued; his hand still warm through the back of Steve’s shirt.

“Are you going back?” Steve asked, shaking only a little; like the leaf of a tree planted firmly, though it bent and warped in a hurricane of change.

T’Challa looked at him steadily, eyes dark and deep like a river. “I am going to fix this.”

Steve just nodded. He had fought everything. Had fought the whole world. Maybe Peggy had been wrong. Maybe the whole world had been right.

Maybe he had been wrong.

The thought ratcheted around and around in his head like the roaring teeth of a chainsaw. He had always thought that a shield and armor were fundamentally different—that a shield protected others, while armor only protected yourself. He wondered though what use one shield was when the whole world needed protecting, and that saving yourself first might in the end be the only way to save everyone. That maybe you needed to take a hit to the face to prevent the blow to someone else’s heart. He remembered being in an alley with a useless trashcan lid and a bloody lip and a friend who fought for him when he didn’t want it. Bucky loved him—he protected him because he loved him. And Steve…

Steve hated the world that he woke up to. A world where Peggy Carter could die and her life’s work could be contaminated by Hydra and the Commandos were all dead already and Bucky had suffered a fate far worse than death and this world was death and disappointment and he didn’t want to protect it and he didn’t care what it wanted.

He fought because otherwise he would have absolutely nothing remaining. _Pretending you could live without a war._ He felt horror clawing at his chest, and it felt like two brown eyes wide with fear and surrounded by blood and bruises. So when the world said they didn’t want him to fight for them, he fought his entire world for— _what do I fight for?_ He only realized that he had finally found something to protect when he smashed his shield into an arc reactor and felt like it had been heading for him all along instead, and that the vibranium edge had finally struck his bones. He felt something more than cold determination. He had something to protect. He had a warm, loving embrace in a stone church and a man who deserved better than having people shoot at him for associating with Steve Rogers and a man whose voice broke when he begged Steve not to tear their family apart.

They remained that way for a little while longer, crouched together in silence, but T’Challa could not stay forever. He left Steve and sent Sam and Sam was solid and strong like stone beneath the earth. And Steve asked himself until the words lost their meaning.

_Who do I fight for? What do I fight for? When did I forget these answers?_

He turned to look at his friend. “Sam…”

But Sam just shook his head. “Still at your side, Steve.”

“Talk to me,” Steve blurted, trying to tell Sam that he wanted to listen, that he knew nothing and that he loved him and that he fought for him and that he would fight to bring him out of exile. But he was only good with words when they came out cold. Words of warmth melted in his throat. His hand scrambled up to grab Sam’s shoulder and hold on tightly.

Sam’s hand rose to grip his wrist, and he was staring at Steve in concern. “Jesus, Steve, how were you hiding this from me?”

Steve barked a laugh, remembering what T’Challa had said. “I’m Steve Rogers. I’m not alright. I need your help.”

Sam’s eyes widened for a split second before he smiled. “Hey there, Steve. I think you need to talk more than you need to listen—”

“No,” he grunted, his fingers spasming on Sam’s shoulder. “I need to hear you.”

“And I need to hear how bad this is,” Sam said doggedly. “Steve, what happened in Siberia?”

Steve closed his eyes and in his mind he heard the phantom screams of a woman he had never met and never seen before. Screaming for a man he had known—a man who had been his friend. He saw Tony flinching back from him and flinching away from two years of silence and cowardice. And he thought, you can’t make choices for other people and tell them it’s for their own good: it’s arrogant and cruel, and it is not protection.

Sam nodded, and Steve realized he had said the last part aloud. “So… you think there’s something to the Accords?”

He shook his head. “They can’t control us. We serve the people.”

“Steve,” Sam said, his mouth twisting with self-recrimination. “You aren’t the only one who… The U.N. _is_ the people.” Steve nodded morosely, finally wishing he could go back to the room where they all sat together. When Tony showed them a young man who had been collateral damage in a conflict so removed from reality and humanity that even Steve had been thrown off by the circumstances weird science had led them to. He wished he had asked a question, any question. He wished he'd cared to.

He imagined the whole world looking at the Avengers like Tony looked up at him in Siberia.

He did not share those eyes with Sam. That was personal. That was Tony offering him concession after option after olive branch after plea and Steve turning to look the other way because he could only think of protecting his world, his old world, his old friend, and even Sam had paled in importance.

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” he breathed roughly.

Sam wore hurt on his face for a few minutes, then gathered himself. “You should not have been on active duty. Or you should have been seeing a counselor. Or both. I failed you there. No, shut up, I did, I should have seen this. I saw you as Captain America before I saw you as anything else, even after all this time.”

“I’m just a skinny kid from Brooklyn,” Steve let out in a small voice, wondering if this is what he’d been all along under his body armor since being pulled out of that wreckage.

“Yeah, you are,” Sam said warmly, laying his arm over Steve’s shoulders and letting his words settle on Steve’s cold skin. “I kinda like that guy.”

Steve summoned a half-smile for Sam but didn’t look at him.

“We’re gonna fix this. We’re gonna go home.”

For the first time in this century, instead of a tiny, grimy flat in Brooklyn in a world that no longer existed, the word _home_ gave Steve a grassy plain and thick rings of trees. A room designed just for him and a glass building filled with people he loved—and people who loved him.

“To our family.”


	2. Anchoring Heuristic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam set his book on the chair without saying anything, and settled himself onto the floor beside Steve. They looked up together at the heavy door that led into the chamber where Bucky was being kept in cryo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who left lovely comments on chapter 1: thank you so much for letting me know that you liked this, since that overwhelming support turned this from possible-one-shot into definitely-multi-chaptered. A special thank-you to krusca for the thing. And thank you to everyone who left kudos as well – each one I get makes me smile. You’re all wonderful!
> 
> I apologize for the delay but it’s been an extraordinary couple of weeks. Final exams topped off by getting into my top choice university! I’ve been on a cloud of bliss…
> 
> Now. Back to the pain.

 

_**Anchoring Heuristic** : An insufficient adjustment up or down from an original starting value when judging the probable value of some event or outcome._

 

**•**

 

_Compromise where you can. But if you can’t, don’t. Even if everyone is telling you that something wrong is something right, even if the whole world is telling you to move, it is your duty to plant yourself like a tree, look them in the eye and say “no, you move.”_

 

**•**  


 

Sam had not, objectively, been in the Raft for a long time. It had felt far longer than reality, though. Felt like every stretching second of eighteen-thousand seven-hundred and twenty minutes, rather than just thirteen days. The Raft’s cells weren’t the worst conditions he’d seen, not after years of war and dirt and sweat and ration bars and mattresses like granite and the sun like an interrogation lamp and the god damn _sand_. The bed in his cell had hit that sweet spot between marshmallow and bedrock. The only background noise was the faint, distant sound of underwater waves roaring against the hull of the prison.

Clint was almost non-verbal the entire time. Lang demonstrated the ability to carry on extensive conversations with everyone else in the room without anyone else in the room actually talking to him. Sam himself didn’t say much. Sam didn’t have much to say.

Not then.

Steve appeared out of the shadows in all-black gear and a smirk, and Sam’s first emotion upon seeing him was warm, shattering relief. Gratitude came later. They scooped up a practically catatonic Wanda from another floor and fled once again, and Clint had come to life with fearsome fury in the Wakandan jet upon seeing the condition of his eldest daughter. An observer to this tirade would have cast Tony Stark as the devil incarnate in their little production, if not the devil’s _weak-spined, disgusting-backstabbing-traitor, dictator-fucking_ henchman. Sam supposed that cast Ross as the devil then, but Clint wasn’t too coherent by that point.

On the jet on the way back to Wakanda where (they were all stunned to hear) King T’Challa had done a complete about-face and decided to defend Bucky Barnes at all costs, Sam’s relief had returned. But this time it did not feel good. It felt desperate: as though he really had lost faith that Steve would come for them. He should not have doubted Steve.

Three days later—three more days carved out of his life like those he had lost on the Raft—Sam’s relief turned sour, like once-fresh water left out in the sun. Sam should have doubted Steve.

He questioned himself like he never had before, spending hours staring into nothingness and asking himself. Why should he not doubt Steve? Why did he not doubt Steve?

They watched the news. They caught up on what they missed. Steve told them that Stark had followed Sam’s instructions and gone to Siberia alone and as a friend, blatantly breaking the Accords to do both, but that he had turned on them once he’d realized that the other Soldiers were no longer a threat. Steve told them that Zemo had told Stark that Barnes had killed his parents, had caused their car crash. That Stark had then single-mindedly set upon murdering Barnes. That the only way for them to get out alive was to subdue him.

Steve was lying.

Sam had been Steve’s friend for years, now, and watched him fluctuate between states of despair and just-coping, hope and even contentment. He wondered if Steve might have recovered faster if he hadn’t had the specter of Bucky Barnes hovering over him, like a threatening storm cloud telling him not to put down roots, not to move on because that would literally mean leaving any hope for his past behind him. Like starting a new family with the Avengers meant throwing his old one out and abandoning Barnes entirely to his terrible fate.

So Sam had supported the search for the Winter Soldier, had taken on the responsibility when Steve was called in to help destroy Hydra bases across the world which… well, he was happy to leave that to the demigods and super-spies and all-round super-people. He was a special operative, not a Hulk, and not an Avenger yet. Helping to track down Barnes was supposed to show Steve that he had a place with his new friends, that there did not have to be this strict divide between Steve’s old life and the now. Sam had supported Steve however he could, even encouraging his friendship and mentorship with Wanda, who needed a stabilizing influence herself.

He wondered if, in reality, he hadn’t thrown Wanda out onto a melting ice floe, telling her it was solid ground and telling her to find her footing in Steve’s strength. Because as it turns out, Steve was so far from stable it was all Sam could do not to blame himself for this entire mess for not seeing it earlier.

He didn’t know where the lie fell in Steve’s Siberia story, but something was wrong there. Something glared in its absence. Sam could hear his friend double-talking around something he clearly wasn’t ready, willing, or able to share.

Sam had been there for the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. He had seen Hydra’s database of “threats,” and the thought of the government having that much access to people was more than terrifying even before it turned out that soylent green was people… that Hydra had taken such deep root in something they had all put their faith in. The Accords just took it one step further: ensuring that if anyone in the government ever did decide that the Avengers were a threat, they would be able to take them out Insight-style and _nobody would bat an eye_. Because they were deemed enough of a threat to need supervision, couldn’t be trusted. Because they had signed a contract consenting to be held to standards that anyone would be able to arbitrarily change because isn’t that how these things _always_ go? Public opinion is infinitely malleable, and Sam refused flat-out to sign something that would require him to follow the whims and wills of people who stampeded after every new sensationalist story. The whole point of the Avengers was for them to be an independent body, fighting for the people, not for the government.

And here came Natasha Romanoff— _you won’t arrest us_ —and Tony Stark— _you can’t have it!_ —advocating for the vaporization of their independence and autonomy. Sam spent half their conversation after Ross left in a state of semi-stupefaction. He’d hoped, a little bit, that Steve would articulate his disbelief better than he himself could, and Steve did not disappoint.

And Stark, the coward, tried to equate becoming government stooges with deciding to stop selling weapons to terrorists. Sam remembers his own stunned silence. He couldn’t think of anything to say in the face of such a failure of logic.

But Sam had spent thirteen days in the Raft, and three days in Wakanda avoiding everyone. He had spent his time thinking. He spent his time thinking about the honesty in Tony Stark’s eyes as he accepted Sam’s terms as though they were a given. _Easy_. So easy to go alone to help Steve, his friend. To admit that he had made a mistake— _Sam, I was wrong_ —now that he had all the information.

Information that they had explicitly decided to withhold from him before, when it could have kept them all out of this undersea fortress. When it could have had the entire available Avengers lineup—past and present—in Siberia to confront the threat of the super-solders.

Sam himself did not have all the information, not yet. But he had those eyes. Tony Stark _cared_ , and Sam had never had more than perhaps five brief conversations with the man, and never one-on-one, never personal, always business or press or publicity. To think back, he wonders if three or four of those conversations hadn’t taken place entirely through Stark’s tinted sunglasses. No wonder, really, if he always wore his emotions shining in his eyes like that.

Thirteen days, and three more. Thinking about what everyone had said, and what everyone had not been saying. _Agendas change,_ Steve had said, and _That’s why I’m here,_ Stark had replied. _That’s why I’m here in this armor fighting alongside you, because my agenda changed_. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

It all depends on the agendas.

Over the last three days, Sam had begun to wonder something he had never (if he was willing to admit it to himself) actually wondered before. What was Steve’s agenda, really? Because what Steve had been saying against the Accords was fair, reasonable, and Sam agreed with it. He agreed with everything Steve said about it. But looking back over the hell that had been the three days before their imprisonment—just three days to dismantle their lives—, Sam found himself wondering if Steve’s actions had really been in line with his words. Because part of the reasoning behind the Accords was that the Avengers had the capacity to do whatever they liked with nobody to stop them and nobody to provide repercussions if they went too far. Sam maintained that the current status quo was sufficient, that the Avengers operated just fine without babysitters. That was fine, really, that was fine—as long as the Avengers were following their directive to keep people safe from abnormally weird threats.

Was that what Steve had done? In Romania, and Germany, (and Siberia?) had he been trying to keep anyone safe… other than Bucky Barnes?

Had he led his friends into a war over one man’s safety? _He's alive._ Because later on in the disaster they were concerned about the five Soldiers, but they didn’t find out about that threat until after they had been arrested in Bucharest. Until after they'd escaped and kidnapped Barnes from federal custody in Berlin. For a personal agenda. It didn’t feel that way at the time, and it hardly felt like that now, but Sam was a soldier and soldiers had missions, and Sam was looking back over his mission briefing, such as it was, and it had begun and ended with “protect Bucky Barnes.”

If the Accords had been drafted because representatives and leaders the world over feared that the Avengers would pursue a selfish agenda and plow through anyone that stood in their way—if that was the fear that had started the very _concept_ of the Accords in the first place…

… Hadn’t they just proven that fear justified?

And the more he thought about it, the more Sam wondered what a difference it would have made to him if anyone other than the Secretary of State had approached them about the Accords. Ross was infamous in the military: a bully, a fanatic, a hardliner. The Avengers had been told all about Ross’s past interactions with Bruce Banner, to top it all off, which only gave him more reasons to want to curtail the team’s power. Sam had wondered if Ross thought maybe to control the remaining Avengers out of spite for losing Banner.

But Ross was not the U.N. Sam’s brain stuck on that point like all his thoughts rotated around the squeaky hinge of that small— _enormous_ —fact. Ross had presented the Accords to them, but he hadn’t written them. Even the U.S. government hadn’t written them. One-hundred and seventeen countries. Sam thought too much about it. He looked up the list of them. The United States… Russia… Sweden… China… France… Wakanda… Germany… Brazil… South Africa… Mexico… Australia… Sokovia… the list was staggering. The number of countries that signed had jumped since their coup barely two weeks ago to one-hundred and twenty-two, and it looked to keep climbing. Is it possible for the entire world to have one malicious agenda like the one he and Steve had feared? Were that many politicians capable of agreeing on anything that specific? Fear of a common enemy was one thing to unite people. Agreeing on a single abuse of power was very different.

Wasn’t it—logically—more likely that one man could have an agenda that posed a threat to world security, rather than one-hundred and twenty-two nations of the world? Isn’t that what Sam had feared from Ross? Wasn’t it logistically easier for a small, elite team to pose a threat to a large body than for a large body to come to a consensus on anything regarding the same elite team?

Sam looked up the date of the first draft of the Sokovia Accords—they had been proposed in the United Nations by Germany nine weeks after the disaster in Sokovia, backed by half of Europe and quickly joined by the rest. That was over two years before the final ratification meeting in Vienna. It took them that long to drive something through the system that most of the world stood behind. How efficient could they possibly be under contention? The U.N. did not pose a threat to the Avengers.

T’Challa had even told him that it was widely understood that as soon as the Accords were ratified and signed that the Avengers would be able to lobby to change the terms, and that the U.N. was open to negotiation as long as the team demonstrated willingness to _listen_ , to _comply_. They would have a representative on their U.N. council.

Isn’t that what Natasha had been saying? That by signing they would at least have some control?

And what was the plan for the Avengers who didn’t sign? Sam had assumed that they would go to Vienna and speak out against the Accords, work on them, work _with_ them, put some safeties in place for the _team_. Why hadn’t they just gone to Vienna? Why had he just buried his head in the sand, as though the looming global discontent with the Avengers would just _blow over_ like some trivial _inconvenience_? Was it simply because that was Steve’s play, and Sam always backed Steve’s play?

And then there was the thought that he had settled into, which had come upon him in sleeplessness and incoherent dreams. One that had him in almost physical pain: Stark had been trying to protect the Avengers, whether they wanted that protection or not. He had confined Wanda to the Compound, clearly hoping to protect her from the shitstorm surrounding her actions in Lagos. The uproar caused by Sam and Steve's action in Bucharest. Sam could see it now that he was paying attention to world news. They had already been calling for her arrest all over the world. They were calling for her deportation in America. People in Sokovia were calling for the revocation of her citizenship. Private interests were holding bounties on “The Witch.”

Natasha had been talking about a controlled fall, like sometimes the best you could do was adapt, to help shape the inevitable. Public opinion was changing, and that was what Sam had feared. But as Natasha had feared, now they had lost any power to control the people’s opinions as they went into freefall.

The Avengers existed to protect people from threats that went above and beyond the normal. They only wanted to protect them. But if that was true, how far were they willing to go to protect people, whether they wanted that protection or not? Stark had fought to protect the will of the people, while Sam had fought to protect their lives. Was that arrogance? Was he guilty of the same blindness as he had seen in Stark, just from the other side of the argument?

And just as he, Steve, Wanda, and the others had fought vehemently against Stark’s attempts to protect them against their will, wouldn’t the rest of the world fight equally as hard against the Avengers for their freedom, as the Avengers attempted to protect them against their will? Did the world see the Avengers as he had seen Stark?

Tony Stark had already experienced the road to hell: trod along his own good intentions. Had Sam now walked that road beside him?

The news reports said that one police officer had been knocked into a coma during the massive crash they caused in the traffic tunnel, chasing after Barnes. Two others… two German members of the C.I.A.’s joint terrorism task force had been killed by Barnes or Steve—Barnes-and-Steve—in the apartment building in Bucharest. Steve had even admitted he’d saved another by catching him after Bucky had _knocked him down the middle of the stairwell_. Parts of the medical records had been made public, used to fan the flames of public outcry after the ex-Avengers. One member of the task force had his chest bashed in with a battering ram— _flail chest, commotio cordis_ —he passed out when his head hit the wall behind him and died before the E.M.T.s even arrived. One had his head smashed into a wall multiple times by someone with super-strength—he had gone into a coma and died two days later from the brain damage.

Those were just the ones that had died so far. One man on the balcony had been knocked back by something thrown through the window—his neck broke when he hit the concrete balustrade. One of the men had been punched in the head by a fist that had just gone straight through a brick wall. One had a cinderblock swung into his chest. The cinderblock had turned to powder with the force of impact. None of the three operatives were expected to fully recover even if they survived. Barnes had jumped from a higher floor and landed on one man’s chest, using him to crash through a door. He had elbowed one in the face, punched another in the collarbone, and one in the solar plexus. All of this with that brutal metal arm. 

One operative’s left shoulder was dislocated by blunt force trauma which all reports suggested was caused by the shield—which had been thrown with such force that it embedded itself five inches into the wall _after_ ricocheting off the officer’s body. At no point during this fight—according to the men who were not lying in hospital beds, the I.C.U., or the morgue—did Steve ever even _attempt_ to contain Barnes. Instead, he had been systematically taking down the members of the task force that Barnes missed as he plowed through.

Sam used to do bare-knuckle boxing with his friends during downtime in the Air Force—he was willing to admit it wasn’t his best sport, since he preferred more mixed martial arts, rather than being limited to his fists. Riley had once slugged him in the face, which had probably surprised Riley even more than Sam. Even today, Sam could still feel the force of the impact on his temple: the individual pain points of Riley's knuckles, the full weight of Riley’s fit and heavy body behind a punch he had expected to be dodged. The sniggering Nurse Mills who patched him (and Riley’s hand) up told them that they both got off easy. That a professional boxer’s punches could carry as much force as being swung at with a bowling ball.

Sam tried to imagine what a punch in the head or the chest from a super-soldier with a metal arm would feel like, if a normal human could generate forces like that of a bowling ball impacting your skull. He came up blank. The thought of it made him feel ill. Whether it was Steve or Barnes who killed or injured all those men didn’t seem like it made much of a difference at that point. Sam had fought with them. Sam had sided with them. Sam had gone to prison for them.

He had heard Barnes over Steve’s comm: _I don’t do that anymore… I’m not going to kill anyone._ He hadn’t done it intentionally—he hadn’t meant to. Sam’s hands clenched in his shirt and his folded arms drew in tighter over his chest. Is it possible that a super-soldier could forget what a normal human can and cannot recover from? Did Barnes not _know_ that punching someone in the head with a metal fist reinforced with superhuman strength would crack their skull? Did he not understand the concept of blunt-force trauma? Did he and Steve think that the task force’s body armor was made of a gold-titanium alloy?

Nightmares of something he knew nothing about kept Sam up some nights. Stark’s armor was good—was excellent, really—but it was primarily a long-range weapon. Sam himself had offered to spar with the man a few times, his attempt at a friendship, but Stark had always been busy or… in retrospect, probably wary of Sam’s association with Steve. Stark would not fare well in hand-to-hand with Steve and his shield, not to even consider Barnes and his arm. Since Steve was obviously not dead, Stark clearly hadn’t really used either his repulsors or the arsenal he carried in the armor on him, and only on the part of Barnes that could be relatively easily replaced. Nightmares of what that fight must have looked like flooded Sam’s unconscious mind to the point where they were spilling into his waking hours.

Stark, crippled by friendship, versus Steve and the man Steve was clearly willing to die—or kill?—for.

Stark, who had just found out that his parents had been _murdered_ , and whether or not he was in his right mind regarding Barnes’s culpability, that had to have been horrendous to find out at the hands of an enemy.

Had Zemo said it and Stark… turned to Barnes, asking him. _Is that true?_ Had Steve just watched, feeling the remaining strands of their team shred themselves into nothing? Had Steve offered comfort to his friend or, as Sam was beginning to fear, did Steve only have room in his heart for one friend at a time?

And as for the worst of the images assailing Sam at night, with the rich sounds and smells of the Wakandan jungle coming through the wide-open window… exactly what state had the two super-soldiers left Stark in?

Sam had spoken to Helen Cho a few times in the Compound cafeteria, as well as at their various bizarre social events, extremely refreshed with how unimpressed she was by the company she was keeping. She was interestingly reticent when it came to Steve, though, and even Thor, whom she had once had a not-terribly-subtle crush on. Sam asked her about that once over Thai food in the cafeteria, and she told him tentatively about the time she'd had to watch in mute, helpless shock as Thor stormed into the room, grabbed Stark by the throat, lifted him in his fucking navy waistcoat and tie through JARVIS’s digital carcass, and held him suspended there well over a foot in the air—legs dangling and hands scrambling—until Steve had demanded a mission report.

A mission report.

“Nobody reacted to him going for Stark?” Sam had asked her in horror.

Helen had just shaken her head and poked at her food some more. “They all just stood there. That was the first time I feared them, a little bit.”

If Helen feared the Avengers a little—and with good reason, since Sam can’t say himself that he wouldn’t be a little afraid to be unarmed in a room full of metahumans who don’t seem to care if one of them assaults a baseline member of the team—then what the hell did the rest of the world think of them? Sam tried to think of King T’Chaka, whose humanitarians were killed by Wanda entirely by accident, because she was new to the job and struggling to control her powers under pressure, who saved Steve but killed thirty-four innocent civilians—and there were no consequences for her, because there was no chain of command. Thor, who grabbed an unarmored teammate by the throat and none of the Avengers reacted—and there were no consequences, because there was no chain of command.

Sam hadn’t thought about it in those terms, because he too had bought into the illusion that “we were only trying to help” was enough to make up for any mistakes made in the line of duty. Steve, as Wanda’s commanding officer, should have been subject to discipline for allowing her into the field in a position of responsibility she was not ready for. Natasha, as one of her trainers, should have been subject to the same review. Wanda herself should have been disciplined—suspended, fined, sent back to Basic, sent for more training. Something. Nigeria had not asked them to be there. They were there to get Rumlow: primary objective. Hoping not to kill civilians while doing so should never be a secondary objective, like it was at the time, and the citizens of a nation should never be put in danger during an operation not sanctioned by their government.

Shit, were the Avengers turning into some superhuman black ops team? Is that how the world saw them?

 _We need to be put in check_. Stark was right. Holy shit, Stark was right. Sam had broken U.S. law, sovereign borders, international law, refused to cooperate with not only the U.N. but local governments too, and all for a personal agenda. Sam was a military man, how had he not seen this? How had he not realized what could happen when people are put in positions of unlimited, unchecked power? Hadn’t he served under enough commanders to know that sometimes having accountability was all that stopped them from just following their gut and storming on through instead of showing restraint and respect and keeping people safe?

Had Riley’s death done to Sam what Barnes’s had done to Steve?

Sam knew that Steve had put that plane in the ocean just days after Barnes fell from the train, and he also knew from reading between the lines of one of Peggy Carter’s early official biographies that he could very well have escaped the plane if he had wanted to—jumped out at the last moment, taken a shallower dive, gone into water rather than ice, even flown out on one of the tiny bomber planes in the back of the _Valkyrie_. Hell, if he had just given them his coordinates he would have been alive to be rescued. Carter’s later biographies had been less obvious on the fact that Captain America had apparently fully intended not to return from that flight, but they had also had fewer interview quotations as Agent Carter got less and less patient with the whole production over the years.

Sam blinked back to himself and realized that he had been staring at the television for at least two hours, since it had turned off automatically. His reflection looked back at him in the dull black mirror. He looked shell-shocked. He shook his head and turned abruptly about to leave his room, heading down the stairs and through a long, glass-walled corridor that gave him a magnificent view of the jungle beyond the palace compound. He did not look outside.

The royal library took up four floors of the palace, all vertical space and reaching balconies, with narrow floor-to-ceiling windows allowing plenty of bright Wakandan sunlight to pierce every corner of the room. There was no darkness in this place, as if the books themselves were illuminating every dark nook and cranny.

After a few moments of searching, then accepting the help of a friendly librarian, Sam found the biography he had had been thinking about. _Stars and S.H.I.E.L.D.: the Legacy of Margaret Carter_. Published in 1982, Oxford University Press. The cover was a bluescale photograph of Peggy Carter with the early S.H.I.E.L.D. logo and a star-shaped necklace. Sam had only read the book after meeting Steve, hoping it might give him insight into this new damaged soldier under his wing, but it was nevertheless a spectacular read.

Sam sat with that book for a while, skimming through the pages for the actual interview transcripts. Finally he found the one he wanted, on page 122, below a little grayscale star and the heading: _A Man’s World_. Carter’s disdain for her early colleagues was palpable in her words, and Sam was briefly glad he had at least been able to attend her funeral and offer his respects to a woman who had gone through so much to accomplish what she could for the good of her nations, and the whole world.

The interviewer at one point had asked her a question not unlike the one posed to her by her young grand-niece. _What is the secret to successful diplomacy?_

 _The key to diplomacy has always been respect for the other party’s position, and the willingness to compromise for the greater good,_ Agent Carter replied. _If one side will not compromise, then your hope for resolution is lost before you begin. So always bend where you can to allow communication to continue, and always listen to the other side._

_But where you absolutely cannot bend: don’t. No matter what they throw at you, if you know that they are speaking against the greater good, you must fight. Even if everyone is telling you that something wrong is something right, and even if the whole world is telling you to move, it is your duty to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth, look them in the eye and say “no, you move.”_

 

**•**

 

Steve was on the tiled floor, his back resting against a chair that was pushed against the wall, cushioned by his rumpled jacket. He had his legs pulled up to his chest and his earbuds in, gaze fixed straight ahead. Sam walked slowly over to him, making sure Steve noticed his approach, then stood silently over his friend. Steve looked large even curled up on the floor, with his wide shoulders and round chest. Even so, Sam had the sudden thought that perhaps he wasn’t looming over Steve, but rather towering over him, protecting him.

The thought was comforting, and it eased something that had been clenched in his chest.

“How are you?”

Steve shrugged, and Sam waited.

“Fine,” Steve said eventually, reaching up to remove his earbuds. He glanced over at the book in Sam’s hand as he wound the cord around his phone and reached up over his shoulder to set it on the chair behind him. “Is that Peggy?”

Sam nodded, but set the book on the chair beside the phone without saying anything, and settled himself onto the floor beside Steve. They looked up together at the heavy door that led into the chamber where Bucky was being kept in cryo.

“T’Challa left for the States this morning,” Sam said into the silence.

“I know,” Steve said after a while, not breaking eye contact with the sign on the door.

“One hundred and twenty-nine countries, now.”

Steve didn’t even stiffen, didn’t slump or react at all to the news. Sam rubbed a hand over his face.

“Steve. Talk to me,” he demanded. “Say something. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“He didn’t even look at me,” Steve said immediately, as if it had been chewing at the bit, desperate to jump out of him.

Despite himself, Sam’s heart lurched at the cold pain in Steve’s voice. “When they were putting him under?”

Steve nodded. “I didn’t hug him. Before he went under. At all,” he expanded, when Sam shot him a questioning look.

“You mean, since…?”

“Since 1945,” Steve said brokenly, and Sam dropped his head back a little so he didn’t have to look at Steve. “Since before he fell. I didn’t… if I… I had to…”

“Stay strong?”

“I’m not strong,” Steve said very, very quietly. “I am not strong. I had to stay Captain America. If I hugged him, Bucky, then I would just be… me, and I couldn’t… I wouldn’t be able to protect him.”

“Steve, hell,” Sam struggled for words, struggled not to sound accusatory. “Aren’t you used to being both by now?”

“I don’t think I was,” he replied. “Both. I was field promoted to captain after Azzano, it was a publicity gig, Captain America, but if I was going to be out in the field they had to… make it official, and they couldn’t afford not to have me out in the field.”

Sam gaped at him in silence before managing to find words. “Steve, are you telling me you were promoted from private to captain in one day?”

Steve twitched a shoulder, like a shrug. “We were at war.”

Sam’s entire brain was exploding in bright fireworks of horror. Everything he knew about Captain America and Steve Rogers began to shuffle in clumsy orbit around that piece of information. Steve was recruited into the army for the explicit purpose of going through Project: Rebirth, was sent to perform with the U.S.O. after its success, undertook the Azzano mission…

“Wait, if you were a private before Azzano, who the hell ordered you in?”

“Nobody, I went with Peggy and Howard.”

Sam was getting a headache. The army had managed to keep that little tidbit a secret all this time. He remembered Peggy Carter talking around the topic in her biography, come to think of it. So Steve went to Azzano probably against strict orders, and was immediately promoted to the rank of captain for his success, instead of getting court-martialed for his insubordination, because they couldn’t afford to do that to their best icon of propaganda in the dead of war, 1943. That… explained a lot. And it did not set a good precedent. So if Steve had never actually worked up the chain of command had he—had he ever actually taken orders from anyone in the field? Ever?

He couldn’t help turning to look at Steve. He was young: born in 1918 but only thirty-two years old, not counting his own turn in deep freeze. He was made a captain and put in charge of a team at the age of twenty-five, and he was good at it without a doubt. But had he ever learned to take orders? Had he ever learned what it meant to earn your rank? Sam didn’t think that Steve abused his authority—certainly not intentionally, but it wasn’t something he had earned like everyone else had, through years of taking shitty orders and sucking it up because that was the _chain of command_.

No wonder he had such mistrust of authority. All he knew of it was spymaster Nick Fury and a S.H.I.E.L.D. that had, for want of a better term, _imploded with Nazism_.

Steve put that plane into the sea, certain to die, and then he arrived in 2011, where his legend had percolated for over seventy years and everyone immediately looked to him to command a team he’d never even met before… to _save the earth_. Had anyone known that Steve was not… he was a talented leader and tactician, there really was no doubt, but he had, in reality, only two years of command experience under his belt, no matter his technical rank and no matter his legendary status.

No wonder he felt that he had to be Captain America at all times, not Steve Rogers. That’s what people needed, that’s what people wanted. Nobody had ever wanted Steve Rogers. And Steve must have finally had hope that maybe Barnes did, like he had before—but Barnes ran, instead, didn’t want him, didn’t seek him. How much must that have hurt Steve?

Sam’s hand flung itself up onto Steve’s shoulder almost without Sam’s consent, and stayed there until Steve suddenly swayed into it. He all but toppled sideways so that his huge frame pressed up against Sam, his arms limp at his sides, and Sam wrapped his arms around Steve and squeezed him as tight as he could. He squeezed like by doing so he could get rid of years and years of emotional abuse at the hands of people who didn’t know any better and didn’t think to ask. There were tears in Sam’s eyes, and he blinked them away, not wanting to even look at Steve’s face to see what might be there.

“They were German,” Steve said, his voice muffled against Sam’s shoulder. He didn’t sound like he was crying. He sounded numb.

“Who? The ones who came for Barnes?”

Steve nodded against his shirt. “There was one outside the apartment. Talking into his radio, German, and I heard it and… it was like I was back again, I just, grabbed the radio and broke it, I just needed him to stop talking, I couldn’t stand it.”

There weren’t enough expletives for Sam to express himself upon hearing that. Steve was… _traumatized_ , of course he was, but he had been suffering from problems that no soldier has anymore because, well, no soldier alive has ever been an enemy of the _Germans_ , it wasn’t something that had ever even entered Sam’s mind to be concerned about. He didn’t even think that there would be an extra element of fear to two World War II veterans being attacked by a German task force. It hadn’t even occurred to him. How had he not—?

Sam choked back the overwhelming feelings of guilt and failure as both a friend and a counselor. This was an absurd situation. It wasn’t his fault for not thinking of things like that. He could only try harder now that he was beginning to understand exactly how out of the box he was going to have to think—how unbelievably out of the ordinary Steve and his situation were. He did not envy whoever was going to have to deal with Barnes whenever they could take him out of cryo. He couldn’t stay there forever.

“You are going to see a therapist, Steve,” Sam said determinedly.

He could practically feel the protest well up instinctively in Steve’s body but, all things considered, even Steve had to realize how ridiculous it would be to refuse at this point. But he wasn’t happy about it, and he began to pull away from Sam. Sam just held on tighter, digging his fingers into the meat of Steve’s arm and back so that Steve would have to hurt him to break his hold.

“You need help, Steve, I knew that, but I thought I would be enough. That was…” He sighed. “Maybe that was arrogant, maybe it was optimistic, I don’t know. But Steve, I am not qualified for this, you need someone with way more resources than I have.”

Steve was shaking his head. It was a bit childish, but Sam began nodding his head so that his chin was hitting Steve’s hair on every down stroke. “Don’t shake your head at me, man. You know I’m right. This has gone far enough. This has gone,” He winced, gripping Steve a little tighter. “ _Way_ too far.”

“End of the line,” Steve muttered.

“This is not the end of the line, Steve,” Sam said, more than a little alarmed.

“He chose to leave me, this time,” Steve insisted. “His choice.”

Sam sighed, resisting the urge to press his face into Steve’s fluffy, messy hair. “I don’t really think he has a choice, Steve. He’s afraid. He needs help too.”

“I took that away from him,” Steve said very, very quietly.

“No Steve, bringing him here was the best you could do for him, this isn’t your fault.”

Steve shook his head, pressing his face further into Sam’s shoulder, edging closer so that his cheek was against Sam’s collarbone, and Sam shifted to hold him better. Steve’s arm behind them moved a little to grab the hem of Sam’s shirt, and the other came up to grab at Sam’s forearm where it was snaked around his shoulder. They stayed like that for a bit, but the discomfort from twisting his spine eventually forced Steve to drop his bent legs sideways on top of Sam’s, so that he was practically curled up against Sam’s chest. Sam’s heart throbbed in pain for his friend, who still wasn’t crying even though he was clearly trying to escape his own body into Sam’s.

“Tony—” Steve’s voice cracked ever so slightly on the name, but he continued. “—offered him help.”

Sam tried not to stiffen. “When?”

“In Berlin. After we brought Bucky in. While you were talking to Nat. Tony came to talk to me. He brought…” Steve’s chest moved as though he had huffed out a laugh, but Sam didn’t hear anything. “He brought President Roosevelt’s pens. A pair of them.”

“Why?” Sam asked quietly.

“He called it an olive branch,” Steve said, sounding dazed. “I told him I didn’t want to break up the set.”

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, then succumbed to the urge to press his cheek onto Steve’s hair. They were not normally physical, the pair of them, not tactile. Steve was stand-offish with everyone, and Sam was a hugger but he knew where he wasn’t wanted. Perhaps he hadn’t known where he was needed, though. A little part of him was still reeling in shock that Steve was accepting, even requesting physical comfort, but Sam was beginning to get the picture that he hadn’t really known Steve very well. That maybe he had never met this Steve. That maybe nobody alive had ever met this Steve, except James Buchanan Barnes.

“What did Tony say about Barnes?” Sam prompted, nervous about the answer.

Steve didn’t say anything for a few seconds, while Sam’s nervousness ratcheted higher.

“If I signed the Accords, it would make what we did in Romania legal. We would have gone free. Tony made it so that Bucky would have gone to a psychiatric facility in America, keep him out of prison here. Get him help.”

For a moment, Sam wished he hadn’t heard that. For a minute he was blindingly furious with Steve—he swallowed it down. “Why did you say no?”

Steve shook his head loosely into Sam’s chest. “Tony told me he'd confined Wanda to the Compound. I… I felt like he’d hit me. I was supposed to trade Bucky’s freedom for Wanda’s.”

“Steve…”

“I know, I know, I know,” Steve mumbled. “I know he was trying to protect her. I know now.”

“She was in danger, Steve,” Sam had to add. “Have you seen that—“

“I saw it. He said she doesn’t have a visa, I didn’t—I didn’t listen.”

“None of us listened, Steve,” Sam muttered, breathing heavily. “Stark wasn’t completely right, but he certainly wasn’t wrong, not entirely.”

“He was trying to protect me. Wanda, Bucky—I thought… I thought _what if he knows_ ,” Steve said, too loud in the quiet room. “What if he knows about Bucky and he’s just trying to get a hold of him?”

Sam couldn’t do anything but shake his head. “Steve, lack of trust, hyper-vigilance, constant fear, guilt… this is all PTSD. I know you don’t sleep. Do you have nightmares?” Steve gave the barest nod of his head. “Do you…” He paused, unsure. A lot of the symptoms of PTSD had to do with _before_ and _after_ , and he didn’t know if Steve was capable of making judgments about any increases in his irritability or recklessness. He really needed to ask… shit. That wasn’t happening any time soon.

“Steve,” Sam said quietly. “Do you hate yourself?”

An involuntary spasm shook Steve’s body from head to waist. He jerked his head further into Sam’s chest, then away again, then started to pull back, away from Sam’s arms. Sam hesitated for a moment, weighing his options, then quickly scrambled as Steve moved, trying to get up off the floor and off of Sam. Sam shifted his mass low and swept at Steve’s knees, forcing him to collapse on his rear, and Steve didn’t fight back. Sam dropped onto his knees and grabbed Steve’s head with both hands, fingers wrapping around the back of his neck, and pulled Steve’s face into the crook of his shoulder, murmuring soothingly.

A dry sob came out of Steve as he fisted his hand in the front of Sam’s shirt and crushed his face into Sam’s collarbone. Another sob dragged its way out of him, gravelly and rough in his throat, and he choked on the next one. Sam wrapped one hand around Steve’s head so that the bend of his elbow sheltered his friend’s face, and the other arm went around Steve’s back to clamp around his opposite arm. Steve was trembling, trying to hold back his sobs.

Sam hushed him, said nonsense things, soothing things, told him he was safe, told him to cry if he needed to. Sam felt his own chest tightening with tears threatening his composure, but Steve needed him to be strong right now. He couldn’t imagine the strain of trying to maintain a straight face like this at all times. How he would have crumbled if he hadn’t had his mom helping him once he got back from deployment.

Who had Steve had when he woke up? Nick Fury? Agent Coulson? The Black Widow?

Sam closed his eyes and fell quiet, gently humming _Lay Your World on Me_ , and thinking that policing yourself is all well and good until your judgment is askew. That if they had been under any sort of oversight, any at all, maybe Steve would have been evaluated along with the rest of them. That Steve would have been helped.

One of the things that had bothered Sam the most about this whole debacle was Stark’s position on things. How Tony Stark, of all people, could be in the corner of the government. He who was very well aware that giving over his suits to them would be a disaster. How could he have been on their side in this? It had started to make sense, real sense, at the airfield, when it was far too late and they had a new mission to focus on in Siberia. Stark had begged Steve, personally begged him, not to tear the Avengers apart, told him he wasn’t thinking clearly, told him that if they didn’t surrender to him and the remaining Avengers they would be targeted by someone much worse.

He wondered how hard Stark had had to bargain with Ross to get the man to call off the dogs long enough for him to try. What had he given – what would Ross accept beyond Stark’s pride? Had Stark begged him for the chance like he’d begged Steve?

Stark’s voice had broken while talking at Leipzig/Halle, he heard it over Steve’s comm, and Sam found himself picturing those big brown eyes as he looked at Steve, pleading with him. He’d been watching from inside the airport, watched Steve turn away. He didn’t have to wonder why, now.

He’d wondered before if Steve’s agenda had been to protect Bucky Barnes, but he now realized that wasn’t it, couldn’t be it. Protecting Barnes would have been signing the Accords to keep him safe, to get him help. Even Barnes knew that he wasn’t safe, not even here in Wakanda under the protection of the king. Steve had not been fighting for Barnes when he refused to sign the Accords in Berlin.

Steve had been fighting to protect _this_. This Steve, who was tearing a hole in Sam’s heart with his quiet, rough sobs. This Steve put up a shield that did not permit shades of grey, because to admit that he was Steve Rogers as well as Captain America was to admit that he was not strong, not coping, not enough in his own mind. And that would mean he needed help, and Steve hated getting help. Hated feeling weak. As if showing any weakness, ever, in any context, meant that Rebirth had never happened and that he was just a skinny asthmatic in a world of gods and aliens and brainwashed assassins. Helpless, unwanted, and useless.

Still humming, Sam pressed his mouth against the crown of Steve’s head. It was sobering to realize that even he was not immune to assuming that the peak of human physical perfection meant an accompanying psychological perfection. Steve was so human, and so hurt, and Sam was going to help him.

“Hey,” Sam said softly, not looking down and not acknowledging the wetness on his chest. “You remember what Sharon said at Peggy’s funeral?”

Steve moaned, a little crack in the back of his throat. “You mean Sharon, Peggy’s grand-niece, who I kissed a few days after Peggy died?”

Sam sighed. “One issue at a time, here. You remember that quote about the tree.”

“Plant yourself like a tree and tell the whole world to move,” Steve paraphrased. “I thought I was right. I thought the whole world was telling me to move and they were wrong. Now I don’t know.”

“I know. We’ll figure it out. But she got the quote wrong, you know.”

Steve paused. “How?”

After a little rearranging, Sam reached back to grab the book he’d brought off the seat of the chair. Steve took it and turned to page 122 when Sam prompted him, reading it in silence as Sam counted out the powerful beats of Steve’s heart. Steve stiffened when he reached the quote. He jerked up out of Sam’s hold, and Sam let him go this time.

“How do you know if you’re planted beside the river of truth?” Steve asked, turning to look at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “How could you _know_ that?”

“I don’t know, but I do know that if you’re looking for it you won’t fight just because someone is telling you you’re wrong and you think you’re right.”

Steve flinched slightly. “The kid from Queens said Tony told him… I… Nat said the Accords weren’t wrong because they’re the path of least resistance.”

“She’s right,” Sam nodded, peering at Steve. “Sometimes people besides us want to do the right thing, you know. Even politicians.”

An unhappy smile tugged at Steve’s mouth before immediately turning into a grimace. “I miss them.”

“I know. I do too,” Sam said, finding that he actually meant it. He missed Rhodes and his endless ability to put up with people’s shit and put them in their place. He missed Wanda’s smiles, the Wanda that grinned when Vision did something particularly socially inept or hopelessly puppydog. He missed Vision’s statistics and calmly curious approach to everything from toothbrushes to houseplants to sarcasm. He missed Stark’s bluster and careless generosity, Natasha’s threatening flirts and self-satisfied smirks. He missed the Compound, Helen, Selvig, all of it. He missed his country, his culture. He was mourning everything he had lost.

And Steve was doing it for the second time.

“I sent Tony a letter,” Steve offered out of nowhere, staring at the opposite wall.

Sam blinked at him. “When?”

“A few days after we arrived.”

 _Not good_. “What did you say?”

Steve shook his head a little. “I don’t remember exactly. That the Avengers were his family. That I was sorry for not—for hurting him. That I would be there if he needed me.”

“Steve… all the Avengers left him.”

“No,” Steve snapped, turning to look at him. “No they—they—we…” He actually seemed to realize for the first time that only two Avengers had actually stayed with Tony. That one of them was his best friend of thirty years and the other was, for all intents and purposes, his child. He had created his own family, and the Avengers had proven they wanted no part of it. That not only would they always question his motives, but that they would not side with him if he were questioned. Not only would they not defend him if he were attacked, but they would attack him themselves.

That they would not love him like he loved them, no matter how many different ways he tried to prove it. Sam thought of a handful of times in the Compound after a rough mission, or during an impromptu movie night or pizza party, when he had glanced at Tony and seen him _looking_ at Steve. He looked at him like Steve was a constant revelation. Argued with him like they were testing each other. Fought to defend him and fought to defend the liberty of the people they were sworn to protect, when Steve was too consumed by his issues to notice that he was threatening his own values.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen…” Steve said, stunned. He turned to look at Sam. “He won’t ever call me, will he?”

Sam frowned at him. “Call you?”

“I… gave him a phone with my number on it. So he could call me. If he needed me.”

With difficulty, Sam resisted the urge to put his hand on his forehead and rub at his face. As if that would make some of this start to make sense. He’d figured out about Tony, but had he missed Steve as well? “And will you call him if you need him?”

Steve shook his head automatically, then stopped. “I need him.”

“Yeah, yeah you do. We’re in trouble here, Steve, and I can pretty much guarantee you we’re not going to get ourselves out of it without Tony’s help.”

Steve’s phone was off the chair behind them and in his hand in an instant, and Sam had to gently grab his wrist to get his attention. “Not now, Steve.” He looked Steve in his watery blue eyes, trying to communicate the seriousness of this. “Not now.”

Perhaps not ever. If Sam were Tony, he’d have dismantled the phone Steve sent and turned it into an automated toilet brush by now. If he hadn't just mailed the thing straight to the authorities.

But he didn’t tell Steve that, in light of what he was beginning to suspect.

Steve shook his head but levered himself up onto his feet. His face was a mess, his hair worse. He stuffed the phone into his back pocket, and walked over to the reinforced door with _DANGER: FREEZING TEMPERATURES_ written on it in five different languages, over a host of warning symbols. Steve pressed one hand against the door to the vault they were keeping Barnes in, inside the palace hospital wing.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” he said quietly. “I can make this right.”

 

**•**

 

Later, Steve pulled the phone out of his pocket and dialed the unnamed number in his contacts.

 

_We’re sorry, the number you dialed has not been recognized. Please hang up, and try again._

 


	3. Frustration-Aggression Hypothesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I realized that I’d been thinking too small. Too short-term. I’ve been chasing after the Monster all this time, when the real monsters have been living in a great big glass house on a hill.” Ross looked ostentatiously around at the chrome and glass room they were in. “The greatest weapons on earth, all here, waiting to be controlled by someone who knows what he’s doing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your beautiful comments!
> 
> One small note: this is the point where we officially break off from “Irreparable,” this fic’s inspiration, and go our own way. (Seriously, go read that fic if you haven’t, it’s amazing. The author is going for plot, which is excellent, because I’m sticking with the angst…)
> 
> One smaller note… I feel I must point out that this is a WIP and that if you think I haven’t addressed something… Have faith! I will probably get there eventually!
> 
> Onward…  
>  

 

_**Frustration-aggression hypothesis** : According to this hypothesis, frustration occurs in situations in which people are prevented or blocked from attaining their goals; a rise in frustration then leads to a greater probability of aggression._

 

•

 

Steve called Tony’s name out as soon as he walked into the common room, and there was so much relief in his voice that Tony actually stopped in his tracks for a moment.

“Aw, Cap, you miss me that much?”

Steve ignored that and gestured for Tony to join him, Sam, and Wanda watching the news. Tony obligingly plodded over, loosening his tie and stowing his sunglasses. On the TV, the anchor looked unusually chipper, talking about someone’s excellent military record and history of patriotism.

Tony was just opening his mouth to ask what they were watching, exactly, when a couple pieces of information caught his eye and the story fell into place.

“You’re _kidding me_ ,” he blurted, struggling to keep his jaw from dropping.

Over the anchor’s shoulder was a still image of a graying, mustachioed man in army dress being awarded a medal by the former President of the United States. A Medal of Honor, no less. Tony could tell that even at a distance. He also recognized the man—general Thaddeus Ross, he of great fame in the Avengers household for his ruthless determination and consuming hatred of one Dr. Bruce Banner.

That was concerning enough, but what dropped a stone in Tony’s gut was the headline that appeared across the bottom of the screen: _General Ross appointed Secretary of State_.

“They can’t do that,” Tony gaped, looking from Steve’s solemn face to Wanda’s aghast one.

_“—fills the position left vacant by the former Secretary of State, now-Vice President—”_

“They’re doing it,” Steve told him stonily, not looking away from the screen. 

As far as Steve was concerned, General—er—Secretary Ross was the epitome of everything wrong with the modern military, from his intolerance to his bullying to his greed and arrogance. Tony could just about see fumes coming out of Steve’s ears, and had to squash the urge that unfurled in his chest to put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve was not so much a fan of the touching.

“Ellis must be mad,” Wanda offered, glancing at Steve.

“Ellis is a puppet,” Sam scoffed. “A military one, if this is any indication.”

Steve’s lips furrowed, impossibly, into an even tighter groove, and Tony got the sudden mental image that if Steve were an alley cat, he would be bristling and spitting at the flatscreen right about now.

Tony shrugged, trying to lighten the mood a little. “Foreign politics. Not our party, we’ll probably never have to see him.”

Steve shot him a grimace. “Why do I get the feeling you shouldn’t have said that?”

 

It turns out, Steve got the feeling Tony shouldn’t have said that because about two weeks later FRIDAY interrupted Tony in the workshop in the Tower to let him know that Secretary Ross was en route to the Compound.

Lacking the ability to adequately express his _what the utter fuck_ response since nobody but FRIDAY was present, Tony elected to simply drop everything and make a beeline for the Audi while dragging on stainless pants and a jacket.

 _What could that warmongering curmudgeon possibly want with the Avengers?_ was not something Tony should have thought on the rapid trip upstate, because his brain immediately supplied him with an array of increasingly distressing answers. By the time he arrived at the Compound he was in danger of working up a froth at the mouth, and that simply from the idea of Steve and Ross talking to each other for five seconds.

Sam was waiting for him outside, looking grim and anxious.

“He’s here,” Sam told him as soon as Tony was close enough that they didn’t have to yell.

“How long?” Tony asked urgently.

“About ten minutes,” was the reply as they burst in through the front doors and made their way for the elevators.

“Steve?”

“Confined to the common room,” Sam said, giving Tony a bit of a wry smile as the elevator doors closed behind them. The trip was only a few seconds long. “Thought that would be safest.”

Tony sighed raggedly. “Any idea what this is about?”

“Nope,” Sam popped the _p_ as they bundled out of the elevator and strode down the hall to Conference 2, where Tony could see Ross examining the wall sconces through the un-frosted glass panels. He was wearing a dark grey suit, hair slicked back, and he’d left his protection detail outside the room.

“But we’re going to find out right now,” Steve interjected, storming over like a lightning bolt. 

“Like hell you’re going in there,” Tony said, a little quietly, since he’d noticed the D.S.S. agents lining the other side of the hall. At the same time Sam snapped, “Sit your ass down, Steve.”

Steve looked mutinously between the pair of them, before he seemed to realize that he technically outranked them. He puffed himself up so that he towered appropriately over both Tony and Sam. “As the leader of this team I—”

Tony interrupted quickly. “Yeah that’s all very nice, you suddenly being all chain of command, but if you go in there I don’t think any one of us can guarantee that you won’t actually start a war between the Avengers and the U.S. State Department.”

“He—”

“—was a champion asshole to Bruce, no really, don’t look at me like that, I mean it, I wouldn’t let Bruce within five states of the guy—”

“— _and_ —”

“—and Betty, yes, we haven’t forgotten, Steve. But you are not calm and you are not going in there.”

Steve glared at him. “Stop interrupting me.”

With a small sigh, Tony removed his sunglasses so he could look Steve in the eye. “You’re the prize to him, Steve.” That shut the man up pretty quickly, though it earned him suspicious looks from both Steve and Sam. “He wants super-soldiers,” Tony elaborated, gesturing at the older man who still had his back to them in the conference room. “You’re his white whale—or, you know, Bruce is his white whale technically, but you’re a pretty decent substitute. Maybe like a white shark, or a tuna. Not that—”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve snapped.

“Right, you go in there and it’s like offering him a nice, juicy piece of cake. You go in there _guns blazing_ and give him an excuse to arrest you, that’s just putting icing and Skittles on the cake. I’m going in there. I’m like fruit cake, he doesn’t actually want me, but I’ll do if there’s nothing better.”

Sam sort of smushed his fist against his mouth, like he was trying not to grin at Tony. Steve didn’t look like he’d noticed any jokes being made. 

“What are you going to do in there?” Steve asked, conceding, finally.

“Relax, Steve, I’m going to find out why he’s here, pick his brain, you know, try not to start a war.” He flashed a grin as he retreated towards the door. “Trust me.”

The grin vanished as Tony turned to step into the room. He noticed Sam corralling Steve away, maybe to the common room, maybe to the security room, or perhaps the gym. An angry Steve on a punching bag was something Tony’s brain still couldn’t decide about, whether it was superbly arousing or absolutely terrifying.

“You been offered a drink?” Tony tossed out to Ross, who turned sedately to look at him with both hands behind his back.

“No, and don’t bother,” Ross grunted, eyes darting to look over Tony’s shoulder as though he were hoping someone else would be behind him.

Tony hid a triumphant smirk when Ross seemed to realize that Tony was all he was getting, even though he had clearly come to the Compound at a time when only Steve and Sam were present. Wanda was off testing her flight abilities with Vision in the hills, Rhodey was at his real job, and Natasha was off to parts unknown, as usual.

“What brings you to our fine establishment, Mr. Secretary?” Tony asked, all wide-eyes and ass-kissing cheer as he tipped sideways to lean against a pillar with his hands in his pockets.

A very strange look flickered across Ross’s face when he looked at Tony, something like a hunger. Tony had seen that exact look on his face once before, when they’d met briefly at a military shindig long before Iron Man, and Tony had been rhapsodizing drunkenly about an idea in his mind that would eventually become the Jericho.

It was unsettling, but Tony was the Avengers’ only horse in this race, so he shook it off.

“You’ve been causing quite a stir, Stark,” Ross returned, blatantly leaving off the _Mr._ and smirking a little because of it.

Tony could have rolled his eyes. Child’s play. “The world’s needed a lot of saving lately.”

“Yes,” Ross said as though he were musing on that, drawing out the word until it was actively creepy. He had that strange look on his face again, almost predatory. “Mostly from problems _you’ve_ caused, as far as I can tell.”

Tony’s heart jumped in his chest. Was he here about Ultron? They were of course right in the middle of a pile of shit over that nightmare, and he’d had to break off a wing of S.I.’s legal department to have them on full-time Avengers duty. They had narrowly missed being sued multiple times, but some of his international experts were warning him that an intergovernmental storm was on the approach. Perhaps it had hit.

Not to mention that hungry look on Ross’s face, like he had seen the weapon to end all weapons, and wanted to get his hands on it. Ultron was gone, wiped from the face of the earth and along with him… any hope of recovering his constituent parts, but if Ross hadn’t actually gotten the memo that Tony wasn’t available to the military anymore, he was in for a bit of a rude awakening.

“Sokovia is making noise about your recent _activities_ there,” Ross continued when Tony stared him down. “Most of Europe is.”

“Do you have something new to tell me?” Tony asked, a little more abrasively than he’d intended.

The gleam in Ross’s eyes flashed brighter. “Unfortunately for all the nations that want to tear you apart, America doesn’t affiliate itself with the International Criminal Court, so you’re out of their jurisdiction unless you piss off someone a whole lot more important.”

It was a struggle not to glare at Ross’s dismissive tone, as if Sokovia’s fear and anger was a little inconvenient, a little comical. Tony was flooding the country with aid but nothing would ever erase that crater from the earth, only time. Maybe not even that. It lay there as a scar on the planet, a new facet of its landscape, a reminder that the Avengers had phenomenal capacity both to protect and to destroy. Clearly, they were not the only ones taking that sobering reminder to heart.

“And… you’re here because…” Tony flung a finger underhand in Ross’s direction, pissed off and a little too disrespectful. Hadn’t he told Steve he was trying to avoid armed conflict?

“The Department of State is concerned with all matters of foreign policy,” Ross informed him unnecessarily, finally turning away from Tony and taking a couple steps towards the enormous conference table that lay between them, gazing over at the Avengers crest on the far wall. “Which means I have been appointed as the U.N. contact with the Avengers.”

Tony’s poor heart stilled in horror for a blip of time. It was like a pulse of electricity, like someone had defibrillated his chest and suddenly his artificial sternum was _aching_. His legal department hadn’t said anything about being put under the thumb of the State Department or, far worse, Thaddeus Ross.

“That’s a good look for you, Stark,” Ross threw out suddenly, turning sharply to look at Tony.

Tony managed to maintain eye contact as he did a quick self-inventory. Ross’s eyes dipped briefly down and Tony realized that he was still wearing a slightly ratty V-neck from the workshop, and that his throat was very much exposed. He wondered briefly, absurdly, if Ross was making a pass at him, before realizing that the man could probably see his pulse jumping in his neck. That he probably liked Tony baring his throat, as if it made him more vulnerable, and Ross more powerful.

Well, fine. If Ross was going to behave like a rabid animal, Tony would oblige him.

“And what would the U.N. like to say to us, Mr. Secretary?” he asked, widening his eyes just enough so that it didn’t look deliberate.

Ross’s hands both jumped out from behind his back for the first time, latching onto one of the chairs in front of him and gripping it tightly. “You are dangerous, Stark. And you are in dangerous territory. Something is coming,” he grinned sharply, without showing his teeth. “Something that will… contain that danger.”

“As far as threats go, you could really be more specific,” Tony said breezily, shoving off the pillar and sauntering over, pulling his elbows in to his sides while his hands remained in his pockets, so that his chest and jugular were pushed forward. “We’ve dealt with some pretty big bads before.”

“You want specifics? How about this: that kid in red swinging around Queens? We’re tracking him, oh yes. It won’t be long until we trace him back to his home, his family. Vigilante justice, Mr. Stark, is a serious crime.” Ross fixed his gaze on Tony’s face while Tony desperately tried not to let his inner litany of expletives show in his expression. “And he’s not the only superhuman lawbreaker just in New York. We have word of a man with unbreakable skin walking away from multiple deadly fights, a woman on trial for murder whose defense is that her victim compelled her to do it with his magical powers, and some wannabe do-gooder in a red leather catsuit leaving bodies all over Hell’s Kitchen.

“ _That_ , Stark, is a danger. And one the U.S. government will no longer turn a blind eye to. If even the mostly highly visible superhumans on earth can get so wildly out of hand, what is to stop these others from turning on American citizens?”

Ross widened his eyes for effect while Tony channeled all his horror into a decent glare. “The time of the free agent is disappearing, Stark. I’m here as a courtesy, in light of your history serving this country.”

He pressed both hands flat on the surface of the table, leaning over it to where Tony was standing just the width of it away from him, arms folded tightly.

“Choose carefully.”

 

•

 

Tony stood in an empty room, looking around him at its emptiness. It was strange, looking at emptiness. You can’t look at the absence of something, not with your eyes. You can only perceive it, only _feel_ it lacking.

There was always something a little sad about a room with nothing in it. At least, there was when once upon a time it had been filled. When it had once been used, been wanted. A new room that had never been used had a sense of expectation to it, of possibility, of beginnings.

But somewhere where everything that gave it purpose had been carted away… the room was filled with melancholy in place of purpose.

Once, this room had been Howard’s bedroom. Before he got married, and moved into a bigger suite in the mansion. This had been his crash pad, and Tony had since inferred—mostly using his own habits for reference—that Howard had wanted to keep a more showy space separate from his actual living space for his conquests. Tony seriously hoped that wasn’t the room he would later share with Tony’s _mother_ , but that might just be asking a little too much of the old man.

Specifically, Tony was right now staring at a wall. An empty wall. The wall probably didn’t feel the loss of the posters, but Tony did.

After the war, Howard Stark had become the world’s foremost private collector of Captain America paraphernalia, plastering his house with war bond posters, framed photographs, bits and pieces like Cap’s original uniform shirt, his first set of dog tags with a bullet hole through the middle, and other such curiosities, until the mansion on 5th Avenue started to look like a very niche, very patriotic sort of Hard Rock Café.

Not too long after they married, Maria insisted that the Captain America theme be confined to a single room. Howard, of course, disagreed. Maria wore him down finally when Tony was little, and came extremely close to drawing on one of the extremely rare propaganda posters with a red crayon. After he was done screaming at Tony, Howard agreed to have everything moved into one room. As hard as Tony argued for that room to be _his_ room, Howard put it all into his old bedroom instead, and locked the door.

When Howard was out of the house, Maria would sometimes crouch down with Tony, take him by the hand, and lead him up to the second floor where the Cap room was. She would press one well-manicured finger to her lips, smiling when her son giggled and copied her, and would then deftly pick the lock with a hairpin she removed from her perfectly-coiled chignon.

They would sit in there, talking, absorbing the history. Mommy never met Captain America, but Daddy had, and that just about blew little Tony’s mind when he first found out.

One of the posters was of Cap pointing out of the paper at the viewer with an encouraging smile, and Tony couldn’t read the words yet, but he could tell that Cap was pointing at _him_. He pointed back at Cap, smiling, and his mother laughed openly.

Tony dressed up as Captain America that year for Halloween. Howard shouted at him, then at Maria, who shouted back, then at Tony some more, and Tony learned that he was supposed to shout back when shouted at, so he did so. Tony was still grounded at Christmas that year, not allowed to go to playgroup and not allowed any sweets. It was his fourth Christmas ever, and Jarvis gave him a candy cane secretly and his mother took him to the park secretly.

When Tony was seven he figured out how to pick the lock himself, and used to hide in the Cap room.

When Tony was eleven, he learned that his father disappeared every summer to go look for Cap in the Arctic, and he felt numb for a few days and wondered why his father didn’t care that he was frozen, too, and he never stepped foot in the Cap room again.

After his parents died, Tony let the house go into disrepair until, years later, one bossy young woman named Virginia Potts—he was going to have to find a nickname that wouldn’t get him sued for harassment—scolded him not to let the beautiful building go to waste. So he put her in charge, with one proviso: nobody touches the third bedroom on the second floor. Ever.

Pepper decided the mansion would become a hotel, and now the Carbonell on 5th Avenue is one of the loveliest, most tasteful five-star hotels in the city. Half of all its proceeds went to various charities from the start, and after a while Pepper had convinced Tony to set up its own charity to support. It was called the Stark Relief Foundation, and very soon grew far past the confines of the hotel in scope.

But even with all that, after all this time, nobody went in that bedroom.

After he'd pulled himself up off the cold concrete floor, after he'd gotten his suit functional enough for flight, scavenging from the nightmare chair and dead body cryochambers in the Siberian base and feeling kind of like a parasite, after he'd returned home, after he'd lied his freezing cold ass off to Ross and managed to escape his wrath with not much more than a slap on the wrist, and after collapsing in a chair at Rhodey’s hospital bedside, Tony had realized it was time.

Still, it took a while before he finally made it into the mansion, the day after he received a letter in the mail.

He cracked the lock into the bedroom, the only room in the hotel now without a simple electronic lock, and walked inside. It smelled pretty awful, but it wasn’t too dusty, and everything in there had been behind protective coverings. The windows had been attractively boarded up so the sun couldn’t damage the goods, and overall it didn’t look so different from how he remembered it.

But there are some things, like emptiness, that it takes more than your eyes to see.

Everything was different from how he remembered it. Cap’s finger, pointed in his direction, was an accusation. He could read it now, and of all things, the poster was about loyalty. _America thrives on loyalty!_ it said, and then smaller, below: _Join in the war effort, for your country!_

Well, Tony wasn’t really sure about loyalty to his country. He’d tried that for most of his life and it had been hollow and cold and destructive, so maybe that wasn’t enough. He was finally, with the Avengers, with his team, beginning to understand loyalty to your country, and why the hell anyone would sign up to go to war. Because a country isn’t its military, or its politicians, or its land, or even its ideals: but its people. Tony struggled with people at the best of times, knowing what they wanted and giving it to them, and yet never knowing how to convince them to give him anything in return. Sometimes he lucked out, and he would never let go of those people for the world.

Like Obie, who raised him as a surrogate father. Captain America, whom Tony thought might actually be willing to stay with him. Steve Rogers, who didn’t know what the hell he wanted but was willing to throw his lot in with the Avengers and give their team a chance to be his. Natasha, his slippery and charming companion. Clint, deputy sassmaster of the team and Tony’s partner in various crimes. 

And he thought he’d finally done it with the Avengers, thought he’d figured out how to not let Obie’s betrayal ruin his new chance at happiness, at support.

But it seemed he still hadn’t figured out how to make people want him back, even half as much as he wanted them.

This was so much bigger than Tony, though. Captain America from those posters was a lie, because it turned out it was impossible to be loyal to the people of your country and the people of your team and the people of your heart all at the same time. When Steve was given the choice between everyone else he loved, and James Buchanan Barnes, he hadn’t even hesitated.

The Accords were… not perfect, he knew that, but he’d fought as far as he could and now it was up to Steve to fight the rest of it, to make the Accords something beneficial for everyone. But instead… Steve ran away. From the Accords, from the U.N., from his country, from the Avengers, and from Tony.

So Captain America was a lie. And Steve Rogers was just a man, a man who hated Tony Stark for attacking his best friend and so much more, and really? It was too fucking pathetic to keep holding on to all that paraphernalia just because Tony was in love with the guy.

He donated every scrap of it to whoever would take it, and now the room was empty, and Tony thought maybe it was better that way, better still not to let it get too far in the first place. Maybe it was easier to keep the promise of filling a room with treasures alive than to pour your heart into it… only to have it hollowed out later, remembering the feel of what it was like to be valuable, to be purposeful, and to be wanted.

Jane called him eight times when he was trying to salvage the world from Rhodey’s bedside. He let her ring out every time. Finally, she sent him a blistering email, which boiled down amongst various insults to his character to the fact that he would be in a realm of trouble when Papa Thor got back from his travels.

He didn’t really have the heart to tell her that Thor had long since been an overarching threat to Tony’s health, and that he didn’t need specifics.

Besides, he’d gotten the picture nice and clear already: that the Avengers were Steve’s, that Tony was only important as far as his wallet stretched, and that he still hadn’t learned how to earn loyalty from anyone other than Rhodey, Pepper, Happy, and JARVIS, or whatever was left of JARVIS.

He knew where they’d run to, of course. There was only one country on earth still isolationist enough not to have any extradition treaties with any other government on the planet. He supposed they would be safe there for as long as King T’Challa was feeling benevolent. That might be a while, since the man was practically a saint. He, after all, hadn’t tried to murder the man who’d been used to kill his parents. He’d turned the truly responsible party in to the authorities.

It seemed Tony was only capable of siding with the law as long as the law wasn’t preventing him from taking revenge. T’Challa did not have that limitation. Besides, surely the esteemed warrior king would never have tried to kill a man he knew was innocent just because he was upset.

No no, that was all Tony.

He felt eyes staring at him, so he looked up from his phone to see Rhodey peering at him over the rim of his book. He'd returned from the mansion less than an hour before, settling back in his chair and nodding at Rhodey when the man looked over at his arrival. The hospital room was quiet, calmly beige, with a pastel beach painting on the wall opposite Rhodey’s cot. They’d provided him with a robin’s egg blue blanket, which Tony had almost immediately swapped out for an Iron Man fleece. It selfishly made him feel a hell of a lot better about how small Rhodey looked in that bed, or about his useless legs waiting for another round of testing.

The Compound doctors had scolded both men like children when they found Rhodey trying his new prosthesis in the residential wing, and herded Rhodey back into bed as if he were an invalid.

Tony grinned at him, even knowing that Rhodey would be able to see the grimace in it too. “How’s it hanging?”

“Tony,” Rhodey said with that sort of placid frustration he’d long since mastered. “Whatever you’re thinking, cut it out.”

“Thinking? I’m always thinking, sugar buns,” Tony said brightly.

“You’re blaming yourself, I can sense it.”

“What would I be blaming myself for?”

Rhodey eyed him severely, setting the book down on his lap. “You? Everything, probably. Anything you can twist to make it your fault.”

“This one doesn’t require much twisting,” Tony informed him.

Rhodey scowled at him, then beckoned. “Come here.”

“Aw, come on, I just got my butt groove just right over here—”

“Now, Tones,” Rhodey ordered.

Tony sighed and made an appropriate production out of dragging his chair over from the wall to right next to Rhodey’s bedside. Once he’d settled, but before he could open his mouth, Rhodey held out his hand, and Tony felt himself reaching up to grip it instantly, a reflex that didn’t even get permission from his brain. He stared at his hand. Rhodey tightened his grip.

“I told you I don’t blame you for this,” Rhodey said softly, staring unnervingly at Tony’s face. He blinked for a moment, then narrowed his eyes at Tony. “But that isn’t all you’re worried about.”

Tony opened his mouth, bullshit at the ready… but Rhodey squeezed his hand again and, somehow, Tony felt his pride retreat like a receding tide, leaving him shivering and hurt and exposed on the gritty sand. He was suddenly shaking his head.

“I tried—” he began.

“I know,” Rhodey told him, still staring, waiting.

“I _trusted_ …” he whispered.

“You started to trust,” Rhodey corrected. “What were you expecting to happen?”

And Rhodey wasn’t accusing him of anything, didn’t have his mind already made up about what Tony was going to say, and Tony loved him so, so much.

So he considered what he had hoped would happen when Cap and the others were informed of the Accords.

“They would be upset,” he began, looking at the mask of the armor on Rhodey’s blanket. “Angry. They wouldn’t agree with the terms of the Accords.”

“Did you agree with the terms of the Accords?”

“You know I didn’t,” Tony huffed, but Rhodey just kept on looking at him. “They were starting to make the Avengers the U.N.’s militia. It wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

Rhodey was quiet for a moment, then he frowned. “Did you tell him about the M.S.F. idea?”

Tony thought that a rueful laugh would work quite well there, but he couldn’t make himself make the right sound. Instead his throat released a hurt little noise. “There wasn’t any time. We’d only just started discussing it when Steve bailed for London.”

“You could have gone with him.”

“To Aunt Peggy’s funeral?” Tony grimaced. “I’ve had enough photos of myself mourning my parents in the tabloids for one lifetime.”

Rhodey clearly had a judgment on that, but he seemed to notice that this line of conversation was stretching Tony’s composure, so he let it go.

“He didn’t ask you your opinion?”

“You were there,” Tony rebuffed. “You heard him. He’d already made up his mind about my opinions.”

“Still, I would have thought he’d at least…” Rhodey seemed to remember that the love of Steve’s life had actually just died at that point, meaning he probably wasn’t in any fit state to deal with or even think about the Accords. “Hell, Tones,” he said quietly, disbelief in his voice. “You know, I don’t think this could have worked out any worse for anyone.”

Tony’s throat leapt, and unfortunately, Rhodey noticed.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

But Tony shook his head, face straining with the effort not to crack. Rhodey’s frown melted and he reached out and grabbed Tony by the back of his neck, dragging him forward. The angle forced Tony up off his chair and onto the side of the bed, and Rhodey just kept pulling his friend’s lax body until Tony’s head was pillowed on his shoulder, his arms tucked against Rhodey’s chest, and his legs pulled up onto the bed. They stayed like that, curled up together on Rhodey’s hospital cot.

When a nurse came in later to take Rhodey to physical therapy, Tony had fallen asleep, and his silent tears had long since dried on Rhodey’s t-shirt, leaving no trace.

  
 

•

 

Tony had the TV on in the background while he worked on the maglev designs his head of R&D was pestering him about. He’d been putting it off for a while, preferring to work on Avengers projects rather than anything to do with S.I.—anything to do with Pepper, which largely made him want to scream and throw things, or perhaps curl up into a ball on Rhodey’s lap and beg him never to leave.

The team was off tracking Crossbones, and had been for a few weeks at this point. They didn’t exactly check in with him regularly, but Hill had sent him a text last night saying they’d traced him entering Nigeria and were in pursuit.

The channel was playing a rerun of _Seinfeld_ , which Tony could take or leave but his girl FRIDAY found highly entertaining. Kramer was up on the roof onscreen, slathered in butter, and Tony had sort of missed the context but it still made him grin when he glanced over occasionally. FRIDAY, who had just learned to make a noise like a laugh, was tittering.

She cut off mid-giggle, and said in a concerned voice, “Boss, something’s happened in Lagos.”

“Onscreen,” Tony commanded, flicking away the maglev specs and spinning in his chair to fully face the holographic TV display.

_“Reporting from here in Lagos, Nigeria, where a suicide bomber has just caused a deadly explosion. As you can see behind me, the Avengers are also present but their connection to the event is unclear at this point, as is whether or not they were involved in the earlier conflict—”_

Tony’s lips pulled into a grimace. “Pull the car around, dear, we’re going into the shop.”

“Sure thing,” FRIDAY agreed, as Tony went to change clothes.

Most of the time the Compound was just too sad to work at, surrounded by like-minded colleagues and Avengers support staff, not to mention the team themselves. It was everything he’d dreamed of, worked for, wanted. But after Sokovia and the horrendous fight he and Pepper had gotten into, one he wishes he could just zap from his memory and not have to live with, he’d agreed to distance himself from the team. Agreed to come back and focus on S.I., on Pepper, on saving the world with sustainable infrastructure rather than misled heroics.

Pepper’s terms had been strict, but he supposed that was fair. On-call with the Avengers, non-combatant unless the world was in imminent danger. Pepper couldn’t handle the stress, and, more importantly, wasn’t sure Tony could either. 

“A suit of armor around the world, Tony?” she’d paraphrased icily. He’d tried to respond, but she’d held up a hand. “You can’t save the world, Tony, that isn’t your job. The endless armors for yourself… that was bad enough, but _this_ , this is unbelievable.”

He’d groveled, pretty much unashamedly, doing everything but begging her not to leave. So she’d set forward stipulations, afraid for him and afraid for herself. Distance from the Avengers, who were largely as mad as she was scared Tony would become. Live with her in the Tower. Focus on how he really was changing the world, saving it sustainably, rather than getting insane ideas like robot guardians into his head when he inevitably ended up comparing his power to that of his teammates like Thor.

He’d agreed to her terms. He’d backed off. He’d hoped to find some stability.

And all in all, he really had. The distance from the team had given him sorely-needed perspective. On his culpability for Ultron (and how he had to make sure that neither he nor anyone else would be capable of doing that ever again), on his team’s reputation both nationally and internationally, and on his teammates.

Steve, in particular, was an enigma Tony thought he was finally beginning to decipher.

He went to a gallery exhibition opening with Pepper once. Many times, in fact, because she loved that sort of thing, while Tony often had difficulty with art because it lacked any reasonable, quantifiable system of logic. He would be the first person to affirm that while he had a great eye for aesthetics and flair, it was always of a mathematical nature. That isn’t to say he only saw beauty in machinery, though.

At that one exhibit, Tony had skillfully disappeared into the Art Institute of Chicago after the third elderly socialite cornered him to sing his mother’s praises. After meandering around for a while, Pepper caught him after about an hour standing in front of _Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte_ , which was the first time Tony had seen a pointillist painting and actually bothered to look at it. Pepper had been pleased with his development of culture, and he didn’t want to tell her that it had only caught his eye because of that scene in _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_.

He could tell that the painting was beautiful, could even have—if pressed—spoken about its colors and composition, and how everything focused on that one little girl in white in the middle, staring out at the viewer without any shadow on her.

What was strange about the painting was that when he reenacted the close-ups from the movie by stepping ever closer to the canvas, he was really hit with the idea of what the film had been trying to convey. Or, what he thought it was trying to convey.

Because the closer you got to a pointillist painting, the less sense it made. From across the room, it was obvious what the subject was, and you could even see details like the butterflies or the horse and carriage over the river, which disappeared when you got too close and were suddenly overwhelmed with detail.

And that little girl didn’t have a face. Tony peered at her, inching nearer, and the nearer he got the clearer it became that her face was only there because the brain interpreted the smudges of eyes and mouth as a face. If you got close enough to remove the context, it was nothing, nothing at all. Really, she was a gaping space in the painting. Thankfully, Pepper’s heels announced her arrival, so she didn’t catch him with his nose a bare millimeter from the priceless artwork, glaring at the whitish blob that was not really a girl.

Steve was the reverse of that little girl. Tony didn’t know what you would call an artistic movement that used painting techniques to make an image less distinct when viewed as a whole and clearer when you got too close, but whatever that art form was, Steve had mastered it. When you approach a pointillist painting it loses coherence, while Steve lost his if you stepped back from him.

When you stood right next to Steve, he looked normal, amazing, even. And even separated from his identity as Captain America, which the public obviously thought was amazing without any personal input from the man himself, Steve Rogers was a great person. Strong, brave, a bold leader, morally centered. When you got really close, you could see a devilish sense of humor, stubbornness, kindness, honesty, and loyalty. You might begin to fall in love with that person.

But when you stepped away from him… it was more difficult to see the self-assurance through what seemed to be blind arrogance. The sense of humor disappeared behind duty and stubbornness. Kindness was subsumed by practicality, and honesty by realism. The further you moved away, the more all those little pieces blurred so that they no longer formed a coherent whole, like a photograph taken so out of focus that you could never figure out what it was supposed to be.

Once you were far enough away, all of those individual qualities became an uncertain quagmire of contradictions. The full picture, in its complete context, was a mess.

Steve Rogers was a goddamn mess, and Tony wasn’t able to notice it until he stepped far away.

He hadn’t told anyone what he had seen in that vision in Strucker’s castle. Rhodey knew that the team had died, but he didn’t know that he hadn’t been part of that team. Pepper knew he’d seen the world end at the hands of the Chitauri, returning to finish the job. The team knew nothing. Nick Fury alone knew that the worst part about seeing his team die was knowing that he wasn’t even good enough to die with them.

Nobody knew that Steve hadn’t been quite dead yet. Nobody knew that he’d grabbed Tony’s wrist and told him he wasn’t good enough. Tony knew what Steve thought of him, but to have Wanda or his subconscious or whatever that had been throw it in his face like that had been unexpectedly jarring.

And sure as hell nobody knew why it was Steve that had mattered to Tony even more than the others. Why Steve had to be the one to tell him he wasn’t good enough. Rhodey already loved him and didn’t show signs of stopping. Pepper would always love him even if she wouldn’t always be willing to date him, but the team… he’d thought, hoped, maybe, that they might care about him too. It didn’t escape him that the Hulk had been in his death throes, as if Tony still had a chance to make Bruce like him, while the others were stone cold. Steve used his dying breath to berate Tony one last time.

Because Tony didn’t deserve them, and it was pure arrogance that had let him think he might have been loved by these people. By Steve, who had made no secret of his disapproval of everything that Tony was.

That had been the beginning of distance. It had made the separation easier. It made the blows hurt just that little bit less when that hope for better was extinguished.

Tony knew that Steve was hurting. He’d even tried to get him into therapy, which Steve had turned down frostily, even when Tony pitched it as an idea for the whole team. Tony had started to see the merits while talking to Bruce after his surgery to remove the arc reactor, and even though Bruce really wasn’t interested in listening to his problems, he could always pay someone to do that. If talking about his nanny to a clearly exasperated Bruce had taken some of the weight off his chest, he thought for the first time that maybe it was stupid to think that you could muscle through trauma without therapy.

The way Steve reacted, though, you’d have thought Tony suggested they all get matching swastikas tattooed on their necks.

So when Plan A fizzled out spectacularly, Plan B was to try to get at Steve through Sam Wilson. Sam was obviously well-aware that Steve needed to be in therapy, but he still didn’t seem to understand the severity of Steve’s condition. Sam had carefully but determinedly shut Tony down while insinuating that it wasn’t any of Tony’s business anyway—which was fair, but unwelcome. Sam was… just too close. He had lost his objectivity. And for most people, the better you knew them, the better able you were to tell when something was wrong.

The problem was that they had never really known Steve before he came to the future. Maybe he had been completely different. Maybe someone who had known him back then would be horrified to see him now.

Steve had mastered the Captain America disguise, was everything people expected him to be, and Steve Rogers was relegated to an afterthought, if he was even a thought at all. Whatever you thought Captain America would do, Steve did. That was fine when you were interacting with him, but when you weren’t—when you were separate, watching him do this with person after person in all different contexts, that coherent persona was vaporized.

Steve was whatever people wanted. He didn’t seem to want anything for himself.

Tony had joined them for pizza night a few times after that, watching Steve interact with the others, and it was the first time it really hit him that he was the only person who knew Steve from a distance. Others either didn’t know him at all, or knew him from right up close, far too close to see the problem.

Tony was the only one that could see Steve for the aching, blank space he really was. Steve was tearing apart at the seams, one thread at a time, and nobody but Tony was watching it happen.

He felt helpless. But Steve didn’t want his help, and Steve’s real friends weren’t letting Tony anywhere near Steve, so all Tony could do was _watch_.

Watch, and wait for the breaking point.

He wondered if the Winter Soldier—James Barnes—would be that point. Because going after Barnes was the first time he had ever seen Steve express a preference, a want, a desire. Barnes might just be enough to crack the façade Steve was constructing.

It was a constant fear gnawing on the back of his mind, that when Steve broke—and he would break—it would be earth-shattering. He tried to keep Steve safe, tried to plant himself like a barrier between Steve and the world that was trying to hurt him, shelter the wounded soldier without letting Steve see himself being shielded. He did his best to keep politicians and their scheming well away from Steve. He filtered all legal concerns—and they were legion—through his teams, he coordinated with Hill and Natasha and, occasionally, Fury, and did his very best.

He could put a suit of armor around his own body, but not the world. Perhaps the middle ground was to defend his team, his friends. Maybe just protecting Steve would be enough, and Steve could shield the others.

Maybe that was what teamwork was.

But it turns out he could only do it for so long, and apparently today was the day Tony’s defenses around Steve and the other Avengers fell like the walls of Jericho.

It was morbidly ironic, really.

FRIDAY kept him updated on the events unfolding in Lagos as he drove up to the Compound, feeling his crappy heart thundering in his chest. It had now been confirmed that Wanda was at least indirectly responsible for the explosion that hit the hotel building. They had confirmed four deaths so far. Wanda must be beside herself, Tony thought, and she wasn’t likely to receive meaningful comfort from Steve or Nat. Hopefully Sam wasn’t too busy holding Steve together to help her as well.

By the time he arrived at the Compound about half an hour later, nine people had been confirmed dead, three of them Wakandans, which—shit, they never left their country and this might actually start a war with the famously xenophobic state.

The only silver lining to this looming black cloud was that Crossbones, Brock Rumlow, had also been confirmed dead, and that the biological weapon he and his team had been after was safely back in custody. Small mercies.

Vision was in the common room when Tony got up there, playing chess against the lite version of FRIDAY Tony had installed in the Compound. He was losing, which was a testament to his preoccupation. Tony’s self-professed open mind had been admittedly strained when he noticed that Vision had a crush on Wanda, and actually sprained when he noticed that it was reciprocal. Pepper had set him straight, as usual, pointing out that it didn’t really make a difference where it mattered. After thinking about it for a moment, he realized she was absolutely right, and began teasing them both in what he hoped was an appropriately normal dad-like manner about the whole thing, which neither party appreciated—but they also didn’t actually ask him to stop.

“You heard anything?” Tony asked as he sat down opposite Vision and took over FRIDAY’s game.

Vision knew Tony would be getting public updates and probably private ones too, but that the team wouldn’t be contacting him directly, so he shook his head slightly. That was something Wanda was teaching him: non-verbal communication, body language. You only really noticed its absence when you were talking to an android that had none.

“I have not heard from the team in six hours and twelve minutes,” Vision told him, shifting his rook across the board. “They are long overdue for a check-in.”

They had determined that sending Vision on this mission for Rumlow would be overkill, not to mention that they were supposed to be undercover and Vision was spectacularly useless at that. Tony could tell that Vision was unhappy to be left behind, though he understood the reasoning.

Tony glanced up to look at the android opposite him, suddenly having a thought. He and Vision might be the only team members who understood that sometimes your heart and your head could be at odds, and that it didn’t have to mean either was wrong. Rhodey was probably in that number too. Maybe Nat, though she had far more heart than even she gave herself credit for, especially as she allowed it to thaw and started to bond with her team.

“Why are you here?” Vision asked him, looking up to meet Tony’s eyes.

Tony returned his attention to the board, swiping his bishop across it and taking Vision’s fourth pawn. “You know that visit we had from shiny new Secretary Ross?” Vision grimaced very faintly, disliking Ross easily as much as the next Avenger. “Well he not-so-subtly implied that the next time the shit hit the fan, he was going to personally rub our noses in it.”

Vision paused, parsing that sentence. Then he stiffened. “He threatened Wanda.”

“Not specifically, but I can’t imagine he’ll be happy that she’s implicated in something like this.”

Upon capturing Tony’s rook and ignoring the indignant squeak it caused, Vision held the piece in his hand and mused on it for a moment, turning it contemplatively before his eyes. “What are you going to do?”

Tony fixed him with a look, and waited until Vision met his eye. “I’m going to protect my family.”

What functioned like irises in Vision’s eyes dilated, then contracted, focusing in on Tony’s face. “Your heart is getting worse.”

Tony sighed. “I know.”

“Have you informed Helen? She has already offered on multiple occasions —”

“Leave it, kid,” Tony barked, then wished he could take it back. Vision looked at him in what must have been surprise. Tony sighed again and shuffled one of his pawns a space forward.

“You are my creator, I do not think of you as a father,” Vision said carefully, maintaining eye contact as best he could when Tony was determinedly not looking at him, when any other person would have found any excuse not to be looking at anyone during this discussion.

_Were they really doing this right now? Right now, of all times?_

“Yeah, I know, I didn’t expect you to, it’s—” 

Vision held up a hand. “Allow me to finish.”

Tony shut up with great difficulty.

“There is no word to describe what you are to me. A father is a biological concept, which is inaccurate, and also a social one, which holds negative connotations for you.” Tony jerked in surprise, and managed to look at Vision for a moment before dropping his gaze back to the board. “Therefore I do not wish that you think of yourself as my father.”

“What,” Tony cleared his throat quietly. “What would you prefer?”

“As I said before, Creator would be the most accurate term, but I do not think your ego is in need of the boost,” Vision said dryly, and Tony couldn’t help but grin at him, well aware that Vision was only making a fond joke. “I suppose I would like to be considered your non-biological kin.”

That… was more than Tony had dared hope for. “Fine with me,” he agreed, giving Vision a little sideways smile. “Adopted?”

“That is apt,” Vision agreed, though Tony had only been kidding. “Adoption is really more analogous to my inception than sexual reproduction.”

Tony grinned. “What does this make Wanda to me, then?”

Vision opened his mouth to reply, when FRIDAY suddenly blurted from Tony’s jacket: “Boss! Incoming, Secretary Ross, five minutes.”

“What the hell, FRIDAY,” Tony yelped, jumping to his feet.

“Sorry, Boss, they’re using that new jump-jet, it’s faster than—”

“Never mind,” Tony said stiffly. “Are the other Avengers inbound?”

“Twenty minutes away,” she confirmed.

“Dammit,” Tony hissed, straightening his leather jacket and brushing down his shirt. “Vision, intercept them. Find an emergency. Or just shut the quinjet down, just don’t let Steve or Wanda in here until after I give you the all-clear.”

“As you say,” Vision nodded, grimly. He stood, preparing to fly out of the ceiling, when he suddenly stopped and looked at Tony. “What are you… why are you doing that?”

Tony paused in unbuttoning his shirt down to his collarbone. “It’s… nothing, it’s a human thing. You remember when you were talking to Rhodey about alpha males?”

Vision stared for a moment, then suddenly seemed to understand. He looked unhappy. “The team would not be pleased to hear that you are willing to sacrifice your own wellbeing for theirs.”

“I’m not sure they’d care much either way,” Tony disagreed. “Sometimes logic isn’t enough.”

“Yes, I am beginning to understand that,” Vision said solemnly, before taking off through the ceiling and leaving Tony alone, waiting for Ross to arrive.

Tony certainly had this to say for the man: he made an entrance. His top-of-the-line jump-jet (which wasn’t as nice as the new quinjets, but Tony still held the patents on those) landed in front of the Compound instead of on the helipad, and made a horrible mess of the lawn. Tony sighed. Did displays of dominance always have to come with so much wanton lawn destruction?

He remained pressed up against the window in Conference 2, the one with the lovely mahogany table that had been repurposed from the hotel as a nod to Tony’s mother, who had commissioned and helped design it. He hadn’t told the team that. Hadn’t told them anything about his mother. How much she had been liked by her social circles, how charitable she had always been. How downright and subtly _sassy_ she could be when she wanted, or how neatly she had dealt with her difficult husband and even worse son. He and his mother had camped out beneath that table once, getting crumbs on the hardwood floor and giggling together about their poorly-constructed tent, until Tony managed to harness the tension between the blanket and the chairs for good, and solidify their fort.

That table was behind him, now, as strong as his mom, and he closed his eyes briefly when FRIDAY told him that Ross was incoming.

“I told you, Stark,” Ross bellowed as an opening gambit. Tony didn’t bother turning away from the window. “That there would be consequences.”

“And I told you to be more specific,” Tony said lazily, finally half-turning with his arms folded, to see Ross in yet another grey suit, burgundy tie, white shirt, scowl.

“Well then you’re in luck,” Ross said, drawing himself up and reigning in some composure.

Tony didn’t like that at all. If a bully like Ross didn’t feel the need to physically intimidate him, that meant he might actually have something meaningful to threaten him with.

“I assume you’ve seen the mess your team has made in Africa,” Ross continued. Tony just stared at him, unwilling to confirm the obvious. “Ten dead at last count, and your witch is responsible.”

It was a little bit of a struggle to keep his feathers from ruffling, but Tony managed to raise an eyebrow sarcastically. “Now how do you figure that? As far as I can see, she stopped a suicide bomber from blowing up an entire crowd in a busy marketplace. If she hadn’t acted, far more people would have died and you’d be here yelling at me about that.”

Ross flushed red with anger for a moment, and Tony suddenly had the horrifying thought that, had things gone a little differently, Ross might have gotten his hands on the Hulk formula. And who knows what kind of a disaster this man would have unleashed.

“If she had undergone proper training,” Ross spat. “ _Nobody_ would have died.”

Tony sighed inwardly. If there was one way to tell for certain that he and Vision were somehow related, it was their shared distaste for illogic.

“So you’re here to implement a training regimen? Send the Avengers to boot camp? Are you going to be their new drill sergeant? Secretary Supernanny?” Tony prodded, trying to get Ross to show his hand.

Woefully not cut out for politics at all (let alone foreign politics, what the fuck was President Ellis thinking, appointing this guy?), Ross flushed yet again at the provocation. “I’m here to let you know that you have successfully pissed off someone with enough power to move things along the path they should have been on long ago.

“The Avengers can no longer operate as your own private militia, Stark. The U.N. and plenty of other countries and interested parties have been calling the President and myself personally to complain about your actions. The Avengers are officially too powerful to operate internationally without some state oversight. You are being assigned to the purview of the State Department, which means…”

He walked around the middle of the room, then settled on the corner of the table—he put his ass on Tony’s mother’s table.

“… You answer to me, now.”

 _Like hell_ , Tony just about managed to keep from blurting out, either with his mouth or his body language.

Ross was still smirking, and he folded his arms. “You know I had a heart attack a few years ago?”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tony said with sickly sweet sincerity, although he’d been well aware of that fact as soon as it happened, since they were kind of all hoping it was divine intervention. If someone was up there, watching all this unfold, they were a jackass, and Tony gave them a mental finger on principle.

Ross seemed to notice Tony’s bullshit, but he held all the cards, and he wasn’t willing to be sidetracked. “I hear your heart isn’t so good these days either. Living with that kind of time bomb in your chest, it gives you a new outlook on things, wouldn’t you agree?”

Tony remained silent, waiting for the point, so Ross gave up on the prelude and finally got right into it.

“I realized that I’d been thinking too small. Too short-term. I’ve been chasing after the Monster all this time, when the real monsters have been living in a great big glass house on a hill.” Ross looked ostentatiously around at the chrome and glass room they were in. “The greatest weapons on earth, all here, waiting to be controlled by someone who knows what he’s doing.”

“You think you can control the Avengers?” Tony snorted. “I hate to break it to you, but they’re not really fond of being told what to do by anyone, least of all some jackass in a suit.” He grinned disarmingly, insinuating that the jackass in a suit was himself, but letting Ross draw his own conclusions.

“That will change,” Ross said darkly, standing up off the table and crossing his wrists behind his back, feet firmly set. “As Secretary of State, it is within my power to revoke the visas of aliens in the United States pretty much at will. I think I can make a convincing argument regarding your weapon of mass destruction disguised as a doe-eyed young woman, one which would go down quite well in the right circles, especially considering the day’s events.”

Tony stared at him. He wasn’t telling the whole truth, but he wasn’t exactly lying, either. It was well within Ross’s power to have Wanda’s visa taken away and have her deported to Sokovia, where she was largely considered a traitor and a monster.

So Tony stayed silent, thinking. Ross stayed silent, smirking.

Tony noticed it again. He had noticed it before, in passing, usually destroying the thought as soon as it appeared. But never had it struck him quite so vividly, and never when he was quite so close to the man. From here, in this fractious situation, with Ross so openly arrogant and certain of his superiority, looming over Tony as if he was in command, it was uncanny.

With his well-combed silver hair, dark, beady eyes, and prominent silver mustache, Ross looked unsettlingly like Howard Stark.

Tony knew how to deal with Howard Stark.

“Well, I guess we’re done here for today,” Tony said, settling his hands in his jacket pockets. “The team won’t be back for a while, I assume you’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll be back here, Stark,” Ross agreed threateningly. “I just hope the others will be as cooperative as you.”

Tony smiled toothlessly, waiting for Ross to escort himself out and collect his oversized security team on the way. He watched the jump-jet ruin his lawn a little bit more, then pulled out his phone, firing off a text and waiting for an old friend to call him back.

 

Just under a week later, Ross returned to the Compound pretty much apoplectic, though he was trying to hide his fury. His attempt was unsuccessful enough to give Tony the upper hand going in, which he appreciated. Very thoughtful.

“You think this is a _game_ , Stark?” Ross shouted, cool superiority dashed beneath the panic of ineptitude. 

“I don’t know—you seem pretty intent on playing us. Sir.”

They weren’t in the conference room this time, but the atrium, and they were beginning to accrue an audience.

“You think you’re clever,” Ross said disdainfully, finally getting right up in Tony’s face. “You’re pathetic.”

“Thank you, Mr. Trump,” Tony frowned exaggeratedly and gestured to the branching hallway behind him. “Care to take this somewhere more un-public?”

Ross looked around and appeared to notice for the first time that there were actually people who worked here, people who were in the hallway, staring at him either bug-eyed or with undisguised glares, if they weren’t actively scurrying away. Clearly, the esteemed Secretary did not want an audience for his verbal abuse and/or murder of Tony Stark, and Tony, for his part, did not intend to let anybody ever find out what Ross had threatened to do to Wanda, to the team. That was strictly need-to-know. So they adjourned to the downstairs briefing room. Tony didn’t trust Ross to keep quiet much further than that.

Sure enough, as soon as the door was closed and Tony had flicked off the security—all the security that didn’t route through FRIDAY, anyway—Ross rounded on him.

“I hope you don’t think you’ve won, Stark,” he hissed.

“This may surprise you, General, but I’m not in it to ‘win,’” Tony said calmly, adjusting his lapels.

“Bullshit,” Ross sneered, drawing out the second syllable as he studied Tony with a vicious eye. “I should have known you would stoop to asking your ex-girlfriend for help. One of the many at your disposal, I suppose.”

So now Ross was going for a personal angle. Bad move: Tony had been mastering that arena since he was knee-high.

“I guess you aren’t familiar with the concept of leaving relationships on good terms,” Tony mused, walking away from Ross towards the refreshments counter, boldly giving the man his back. He half-turned to glance over his shoulder. “Or so I hear.”

Ross was hilariously ruffled. “Don’t you bring her into this.”

Tony shrugged acquiescently, fetching himself a paper cone of water from the dispenser. “Drink?”

“From you?” Ross said snidely. “How could I be certain you haven’t _poisoned_ it?”

Tony gave in to the urge to roll his eyes, which succeeded in pissing Ross off even further, though not quite to incoherence.

He took a sip of his water, then tipped the cup in Ross’s direction. “Too obvious. So let’s get to it, shall we?”

With a broad sweep of his arm, he gestured at the chairs surrounding the round debriefing table, but Ross just scowled at him.

So Tony shrugged, and remained standing too. “I went over your head. The esteemed Ambassador Fujikawa has convinced the U.N. that the last thing they want to do to relieve this issue is to put the Avengers further under the control of the U.S. government. They already had a contingency in the works, now it’s going into motion.” He lifted one finger off his paper cup and pointed it at Ross. “You lose. You don’t get the Avengers. … Should I call checkmate, or is that too corny? I feel like it’s too corny.”

Ross continued to glare for a few seconds, then made the supreme effort to muster his composure, taking a deep breath and then fixing a much calmer gaze on Tony. “You haven’t won, Stark. Not even close. This was just the first battle. I assure you: there will be a war.”

“That won’t stop us. The Avengers can fight a war if we have to.”

Ross smiled unnervingly. “I guess we’ll see. I wish I could be there when you tell Captain Rogers that you want to chain them down, even to the United Nations.” He faked a look of dismay. “Good luck convincing him.”

Tony just stared.

“But do it soon, Stark. Either the Avengers sign with the U.N. within a month, or they register for duty with the State Department. Don’t think you have friends in Washington. You’re becoming a liability, a political embarrassment. Our patience will only last so long.”

Ross left shortly after that, probably deliberately firing his jet’s thrusters on the recently redone lawn outside, but Tony didn’t see it because he remained in the briefing room. He sat shakily down at one of the chairs at the round, empty table, wondering askance—perhaps a little frantically—what King Arthur would do.

(Well, King Arthur never had to deal with the United States government, for which Tony envied him.)

He could call on his fellow knights. … His head hurt just thinking about them all shouting at each other about government control and freedom and liberty and who knows what else. That might not actually be the best way to do it if they wanted to get anywhere.

He’d read the Sokovia Accords as they currently stood, and there was no chance in hell Steve would go for it, and probably none of the others, either. Hell, Tony wouldn’t go for it if he didn’t know what the alternative was.

_The only thing you fight for is yourself._

There was another option. The thought came with a little twinge in Tony’s chest, surprising him that it still hurt even after all these years.

_I know men with none of that worth ten of you._

He wondered if he would ever forget what it felt like to be cut down so small by one of the few people on earth whose good opinion Tony might have actually wanted to earn.

_I think I would just cut the wire._

_Always a way out._

He’d already cut Ross’s wire. Maybe now it was time to try a different approach. Find the middle ground between the current Accords and no oversight at all.

He pulled out his phone and dialed again.

“Rumiko, my angel of political maneuvering,” he greeted, giving in to the laugh that bubbled up at her blasé, pithy response. “Glad you aren’t tired of hearing from me yet.”

He would break the Accords down as far as he could, and hope it was enough. Just as long as they _signed_ , and kept themselves out of Ross’s hands. That blowhard could huff and puff all he liked, but as long as the Avengers were under the purview of the U.N., they would be safe from him.

  
 

•

 

Nick Fury apparated into the Tower one evening. It was the only reasonable explanation for his sudden appearance in Tony’s sixty-eighth floor penthouse without alerting any security, or even FRIDAY.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Tony asked dryly, not looking up from the journal he was reading on the couch.

“A little birdie told me you just got Captain America exiled.”

“Would this little birdie happen to favor outfits by Akris and accept bribes of Mi Esperanza coffee beans?” Tony asked, putting the tablet down on the coffee table without looking over the back of the couch at the intruder.

“What’s your game, Stark?” Fury asked abruptly.

“See, I happen to be the only person involved in this who doesn’t have a game to play,” Tony retorted, levering himself up off the couch and walking over to the bar. “Which leads me back to my first question. What do you want?”

“I _wanted_ my crack team of superheroes functional,” Fury said, sauntering down the steps from the hall into the front room. “In case there was an actual emergency. But I guess that was just too much to ask.”

“Careful, Fury,” Tony said in a low voice, pouring a shot of scotch. “You’re starting to sound a little excited.”

“Do you think this is funny?” Fury demanded, dropping the cool act and leaning against the sofa Tony had just vacated. “Steve Rogers is a fugitive. He’s taken Barton, Wilson, Maximoff, and Lang with him to parts unknown—” Tony snorted. “—And yet here you are. How did you manage that?”

Tony finally looked up at Fury, to glare solidly at him. “You know why I haven’t called the police on you?”

“Survival instinct.”

Tony smiled without humor. “Because there’s nothing they could do. They have no way to keep you out of my house. No way to keep you away from me. Or, you know, punish you for threatening to kill me if I call the police." He raised an eyebrow pointedly, then his stare focused in on the man in omnipresent black leather, laser-sharp. They have no way to punish you for breaking the law. That’s terrifying, Nick. If you did decide to kill me, I couldn’t stop you, and nobody would punish you.”

Fury stared at him, clearly thinking. Thinking something like _but I would never_ , and that’s the point, that nobody had thought Steve _would ever_ either. That Fury was the _good guy_ , or maybe that he _needed to be able to work independently, without restrictions and cumbersome regulations_. Anything Nick could say would only make Tony’s point for him.

“You’re afraid,” Nick finally said. “I never thought I’d see the day Tony Stark—”

“ _Spare me_ ,” Tony snapped, slamming his glass down on the granite countertop. “You’re so full of shit. You’re as bad as the rest of them. You _like_ being above the law, you like doing whatever the fuck you want, however the fuck you want to do it, and nobody can tell you _no_. You don’t care about the people you’re protecting, you don’t care about me, you don’t care about Steve, you’re just a powerful man who doesn’t want to lose that power by admitting that you’re wrong, that there’s a better way.

“But you’re wrong. You’re outdated. What happened to the values of democracy? How the hell did _I_ end up the only person who thinks it’s wrong that you operate without the consent of the people you claim to serve?”

Tony breathed raggedly, downing half his shot and bracing himself on the bar, one hand gripping the cool glass and the other wrapped around the lip of the countertop. The flecks of gold mineral in the stone looked like constellations of stars. There was an enemy out there—an inhuman, wannabe-overlord enemy hovering all around them in space with technology that far outstripped their own, just waiting for their chance to take over the planet. They had only defeated them through a combination of luck and bullheaded stupidity the first time around, there was no guarantee they would be so lucky a second time.

That was _out there_. Tony had _seen it_ , with his own eyes, throwing a nuke at them even as he realized that it was like throwing a soda rocket at a mountain. 

That was out there, waiting, and here on earth they couldn’t agree with each other long enough to even make friends, let alone coordinate a counterattack, or even just a defense.

Tony’s hands were shaking in his bed at night with the desire to put a forcefield around his planet, throwing himself into the team with the hope that maybe that would do the job he had proven himself incapable of the first time around. It wasn’t enough.

Nothing Tony did was _ever_ enough.

He laughed, and he could tell it was a pitiful sound; he didn’t even have to look at Nick’s face. “I thought I was giving them the choice between survival and death. They didn’t see it that way. I’m always the villain. Everything I do is always wrong. They must use it like a yardstick—does Tony support this? Yes? It must be wrong.” He let go of the shot glass to run both hands through his hair. “ _Choice_. I wasn’t giving them a choice. They only saw an ultimatum.

“I was trying to protect them. I am _always_ trying to protect them, but _they don’t want it_. I’m so tired of hurting people. I’m so tired of hurting the people I love.”

He looked up at Nick, and was a little surprised to see that he was still there, watching him.

There was a long silence, and Tony’s stomach clenched harder and tighter as the moments passed and his fear of Nick’s response grew uglier.

“If the Avengers’ first appearance hadn’t been in New York,” Nick finally said. “This would have been different. It set a precedent that the Avengers were American, not a world force. I would not have chosen that for the inaugural mission.”

Tony stared at him.

Nick seemed to realize he was headed down a dead end, and changed tactics, running his fingers along the seams of the leather couch back as he spoke. “We’re operating underground. Now that the Avengers’ efficacy has been crippled, that’s where you’ll find us.”

Tony’s eyes widened, his lips parting. Had Nick… not listened to a word he’d said?

“That isn’t the point,” he choked out. “How can you be so blind? Cap has crippled _all of us_. We might never recover from this. They’re trying to make the Accords even stricter than they were to begin with.”

“You’re just going to roll over and beg, then?” Nick asked sharply, turning to affix his one eye on Tony’s face, mouth set into a frown. “Show them your belly, do whatever they ask you to do? Do you really think that is the best way to protect the people? You had the right idea with Ultron, Stark, just not the right execution. That doesn’t mean you just… _give up_.”

“Get out,” Tony rasped. “Get out of my house. Get out, now.”

Nick gave him one long, disapproving look, but he left without another word.

Tony was _shaking_.

He poured the rest of the scotch down the small bar sink before settling back into his hunch, holding the glass in a vice-like grip, contemplating throwing it at the panoramic window. He dropped it into the sink instead, wishing it would shatter but hearing its heavy weight clunk against the stainless steel and bounce once.

He wishes he could stop. He wishes Pepper was still here. He wishes he had been able to focus on her as much as she deserved, but she was wrong. He had a duty, a responsibility, to do everything he could to protect the people he loved. He’d thrown his father’s life’s work in the gutter to protect his country’s servicemen. He’d given his own life to save the city of New York, waking up in complete shock that the afterlife looked like a shitty, rubble-and-dust covered warzone with the Hulk looming over him. He’d given up his suits trying to protect Pepper and do right by her. He’d sacrificed… he’d let JARVIS go to defeat the evil he’d brought to life in Ultron. He’d given his heart, his work, his mind, his money, his time, his everything, everything he had of any value, trying to protect people from dangers he or people like him had created.

He had nothing more to give.

He—

No. He thought of Rhodey. He had legs to give to Rhodey. It wasn’t Rhodey’s entire world, but it would salvage as much of his life as it had been before as they could. He had Peter to protect, now. Maybe Tony’s job was to make sure that other people could save the world. Tony’s weapons were his responsibility, but the Avengers weren’t his. They were never his.

It wasn’t his fault, it wasn't.

He breathed in deeply, trying to convince himself, smelling the stone and the metal and the scotch and it felt fresh, cold, easy in his lungs. The Avengers breaking the law wasn’t his fault, no matter what Clint said. They made their own choices. They weren’t children. They weren’t his children. He'd had no reason not to trust them, no reason to think they would turn against the whole world, even if he knew they would eventually turn on him.

This… this wasn’t over with. Tony wasn’t finished protecting them.

But not the people who had rejected his hand. They’d made their position plain. He heard their message, loud and clear. They didn’t want his help. He understood now that you just couldn’t protect people that didn’t want you to, because they would get used to it, and they would turn on you, and they and you would wind up with _nothing_.

There were other people who really needed him. People who wanted him.

He would live for them, now.


	4. Groupthink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I updated the tags for this fic because it has changed a _great deal_ since I wrote the first chapter, thinking it would only be a oneshot. Also, this chapter is about as gory as the story will ever get.

_**Groupthink** : The tendency of a decision-making group to filter out undesirable input so that a consensus may be reached, especially if it is in line with the leader's viewpoint._

•

  

Steve shuddered awake with his head heavy on his pillow, and his mind heavy with memories.

The room was completely dark—the panoramic window blacked out and all the lights firmly off. His sensitive eyesight meant he had little tolerance for residual light sources, and with the way he’d been waking up every few hours lately he needed all the help he could get staying asleep.

It wasn’t usually dreams that woke him, but rather a constant yawning pit low in his gut. Some terrible thought clawing away at his insides. He always thought it might be a dream he’d forgotten, and he was grateful.

Because the dreams he remembered left him feeling like there was a black hole in his stomach.

He slipped gracelessly out the side of the bed, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck and feeling sweat pooled there in large swathes, as thick as though the cool bedroom were the jungle outside. He made it to the bathroom and locked the door, despite the fact that he was alone in his suite and the outer door was encoded with biometric scanners.

His reflection was not a good depiction of his emotional state, but then, when was it ever? His insides could have felt like they’d been stapled to the back of the Cyclone at Coney Island, and still he thought he would look entirely normal in a mirror.

Blue eyes squinting in the sudden brightness of the bathroom light, pupils fully constricted. Face slightly flushed, lips red. His hair was matted around his head, but after tossing and turning for a few hours that was only to be expected. Its strands were dark and damp with sweat, and that was about the biggest clue as to what had woken him up.

Steve grimaced at himself, watching his face twist in real time. His eyes were blue, not brown. His hair gold, not dark, no grey at his temples. His nose was aquiline rather than sloped, his chin wide but not jutting. He was looking at his own face. He stared at it, hoping to forget what Tony’s had looked like when the shield came slicing down.

He was shaking, he realized. He pulled up a hand to stare at it, watching the muscle tremors like an earthquake crashing through him alone. He was half-surprised and half-relieved like a wash of icy water to see that there was no blood spattered on that hand. There had been so much blood…

The other hand was equally clean, also shaking from the wrist down to his fingers. He had hurled the shield down with all of his strength, blind with fear, and it touched at Tony’s neck. The skin there had dented, and Steve watched the groove deepen as the pressure increased. The shield kept moving with all the force of his inhuman muscles, his neck cording, his arms tight, core engaged with every byte of training he’d received, pushing the blunt edge of the shield through the skin of Tony’s throat, down into his larynx, and through, down to where he briefly felt it impact the front of a vertebra, then keep traveling with deadly force, crunching through the bone and spinal cord and exiting with ease through the rest of the muscles and skin.

Steve snapped around and curled over the toilet, retching out the contents of his stomach until the shaking had spread from just his hands to his entire body. He could feel his abdominal wall, the long muscles of his back, his thighs, his shoulders, all quaking as he knelt on the cool stone floor and wished he didn’t have to eat so much food to keep this body functional.

The image of Tony’s head tipping backward off his neck and rolling slightly down the concrete incline flashed through Steve’s mind, and he returned his face to the toilet bowl. The head had rolled until the nose hit icy concrete and it couldn’t roll any further, and there was so much _blood_ …

Tears had gathered in Steve’s eyes from the strain of vomiting over and over again, and he had no idea how much time had passed before he reached up with one hand, unsteady and without coordination, to flush the toilet and then collapse back against the glass wall of the shower. He could still see the stump of Tony’s spine at the base of his neck, cracked and spiking from the muscle, the hollow passage of his severed trachea, and it was all he could do not to start dry heaving yet again.

“That isn’t what happened,” he mumbled, trying to convince his brain of the truth.

Natasha had told him years ago that the truth wasn’t all things to all people all the time. He wondered if that was why he had dreamed this repulsive thing, or why the night before he had dreamed that Tony still had an arc reactor embedded in his ribcage, that Steve had cracked the casing and sent it cycling into oblivion, and that he had ripped the armor in shards from Tony’s chest—only to watch helplessly as he slowly died from a heart attack Steve had caused and could do nothing to fix.

He vividly remembers pressing his mouth to Tony’s, forcing oxygen into his lungs, trying to do chest compressions like he’d been taught, but cracking each and every one of Tony’s ribs when he miscalculated his own force.

These dreams were not the first, but they were getting worse. In all of them, Tony didn’t look at Steve. He found himself beginning to wish that Tony would fix those brown eyes on him just once in a dream. Whether it was an accusation, a plea, or something else, but Tony always averted his gaze from Steve as he killed him. Steve didn’t know if he wanted those eyes to prove that this was happening, or that it hadn’t happened, or if he just wanted to see the eyes of a man he had tried to build some kind of a real future with once more. Even in dreams, even in nightmares. Even like this.

Because Tony had looked at him, in truth. In the past, in reality, where it had been written in time and there was nothing Steve or his subconscious could ever do to change it.

Tony had looked up at him as Steve held the shield aloft over his head.

He hadn’t known what he was going to do with the shield at that point, only that he could inflict maximum damage by increasing the distance it travelled around the fulcrum of his powerful shoulders, propelled by arms that Tony had joked about a dozen times, likening them to everything from footballs to marble statues to Asgardian princes.

His mind had been racing, but all so fast that he wasn’t gleaning any meaningful thoughts—no traction or conclusion or coherence. He knew it started when Tony kicked Bucky in the face, that yawning, blank fury. It wasn’t Iron Man at that point, but a danger. Not his friend, but a threat. Not Tony, but an enemy, and all of Steve’s martial combat skills were useless against his impenetrable armor.

He knew, in that nebulous way that sometimes knowledge was just _there_ , without being able to remember where he had heard it or why he knew it or who had told him, that the only way to scratch a diamond was to use another diamond. So somewhere in his mind he realized that fists—flesh, enhanced flesh, but still just skin, muscle, and bone, already bruised and probably fractured—would not suffice against the metal of the armor.

But the shield would do the job. He slammed it against the weak point, the thinnest point of the armor—the faceplate. Retractable, filled with seams. Tony had shown him the schematics one day, with FRIDAY sassing him and him sassing back at her while Steve was amused and exasperated and unappreciative.

The faceplate gave, only a little, just a small in, and Steve got his fingers under it and wrenched it away. Crumpled it up like trash. He had successfully breached the enemy stronghold, and raised the shield to strike the finishing blow.

Tony looked up at him. Not at his eyes, because they were not communicating, but at his snarling mouth, at the shield. His hands flung up in defense but they didn’t obscure those eyes.

The fear in them would probably fuel Steve’s waking and unconscious mind for years to come, if he would ever be able to forget them.

They didn’t stop him though, they just sent a frisson through him that notched his intent down from _kill_ to _disable_ , and the shield slammed down into the arc reactor after just a split second spark of recognition. That those eyes were something like home. Something like Bucky, and Steve would never, ever fight Bucky no matter the circumstances. So he could not stand down, but he couldn’t bring the shield down where he had intended, either.

He wondered if Tony had seen that initial intent to kill him when he looked up at Steve’s face.

The ease with which he could have… done something unspeakable was almost as horrifying as the nightmares themselves. Or perhaps the two were the same, fuelled by the same fear in a pair of bright, brown eyes.

In truth, he wouldn’t have severed Tony’s neck, and there was no arc reactor powering Tony’s heart for him to break. Those were fabrications to conceal the reality of the situation, because even the worst Steve’s unconscious mind had thrown at him didn’t carry the horror of truth.

The objective had not been the neck, nor the heart, but the face. Steve was going to slam that heavy, blunt-edged shield into the middle of Tony’s treacherous face, right through his nose, into the cavity of his skull. It probably wouldn’t have killed him, not right away. He would have bled out, or frozen to death. He may not have died at all, just suffered catastrophic brain damage.

His eyes would still be open, still be staring.

The fury that had saturated Steve’s entire being was incandescent, glowing and vicious and terrified, mindless with fear for Bucky, himself, and everything that had gone wrong. What Tony had done to him, what he had done to their team, screaming that he was a threat—that the world would be better off without Tony Stark. Perhaps those were the thoughts that resulted in that upraised vibranium shield.

But all that Steve could remember was white rage, until brown eyes wide with terror.

He wondered if that was what Bruce experienced when the Hulk took over—if he remembered it all distantly, in some part of his brain. If he was aware that he was conscious and acting, but unable to compute the input from his senses, his nerves, his instincts, or even attempt to override the blindness of the anger. He wondered if Bruce’s experiment had gotten him far closer to the reality of a supersoldier than any of them had ever fathomed.

The roaring in his head had settled when he realized he had struck the arc reactor, when time started back up and he was panting, heaving, and unsure. He was so ready to leave, so ready to stop existing, that he was suddenly grateful that Tony gave him a reason to drop the shield.

He had almost used that shield to commit bloody, hateful, vengeful murder, and he wasn’t certain he ever wanted to touch the thing again so long as he lived.

If he did, he was sure his nightmares would bleed into the waking world, and he wouldn’t be able to pretend he could still live with himself.

The rage didn’t dissipate fully until T’Challa cornered him the day after Bucky went into the ice. It was like the king had extended his razor-sharp vibranium claws, stabbing into him, searching deep within, and finding that he was compromised from head to toe with hairline fractures. He had shattered under the assault. T’Challa had spoken to him as if he were a man awakening from a coma, but Steve had already done that once. He knew what that was like. The slow, dragging crawl into consciousness, the disorientation, the fear.

This had felt more like being set on fire, and having everything he’d accumulated since Rebirth burned away. He was left raw, blackened and cracked, glistening red and fleshy pink and soothed only by Sam’s presence, or by the sight of Bucky safe in the cryochamber.

Sam had been shocked by how easily Steve had broken, but Steve knew the truth was that he’d been waiting to break for so long that he had come to fear it more than he feared death itself.

So here he was, on the other side of a fate worse than death, sweating and shivering on a tiled bathroom floor, filled with images of a murder he committed night after night in his sleep, almost wishing he really had killed Tony so that the imaginings could end. He wanted to look at Tony, to reassure himself that he was alive, maybe so that then he could convince his brain to _stop, just please, stop_.

He couldn’t convince himself that he hadn’t intended to kill Tony, though, and it seemed that was enough for him to be guilty of a heinous crime. It didn’t matter how or if the murder actually happened.

And Sam had brought the letter back to mind, so that now Steve’s brain was tearing itself apart as he tried to remember what he’d written. Had it been as callous as he now feared? As arrogant, as superior? The man who had written it was still ensconced in a murderous, furious haze, running on righteousness and defensive impulses.

Tony had to hold that letter. He didn’t get to forget it because he would have it there in front of him. He could reread it, read it until he’d wrung every last drop of condescension out of it.

Steve stood on shaky legs, filling the stone sink and dropping his face into it. When he ran out of breath, he turned to the side to scoop the cold water onto his neck, letting it slip over his skin, through his hair, trying to cool his flesh and wash off the sweat.

There wasn’t the slightest chance he was willing to close his eyes again tonight, so he pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, and left his room.

The palace was always busy, even at night, and Steve noticed distantly that he hadn’t looked at the clock before leaving his room, and he had no idea what time it was. This late though, the residential wing contained mostly the occasional member of security staff, and he nodded at the few faces he was beginning to recognize as they paced through their rounds.

The five fugitives the king had brought back with him were all housed in the same wing, generally reserved for state visitors. It only had four suites, so Clint and Wanda had agreed to share theirs. (It was also an unspoken understanding that neither Wanda nor Clint wanted to sleep alone when they were used to being surrounded by family, or friends at the very least.) There was a kitchen for the entire wing in the middle of its square formation, next to the open-plan living room.

It wasn’t too surprising this time to see that Wanda was already there, curled on one of the bar stools at the island with a mug of steaming tea. Steve could smell the chamomile from here, but as he drew nearer he saw that she hadn’t started drinking it. She stared off into space, though he knew she’d heard him approach.

“What is it tonight?” he asked, folding his arms and leaning against the side of the island.

She blinked, then looked up at him with haunted eyes. Her hands tightened on the mug. “I went to help in the kitchens today,” she said, voice a little cracked with disuse. She swallowed. “There was a woman there. Executive housekeeper. Her… daughter, Ata, was one of the… one of the people in Lagos.” Tears flooded her eyes, and she pressed them shut, turning to face forward again.

Steve carefully rounded the island and took the stool next to her. His head was still far above hers, as much as he hunched, so he pressed his shoulder against her own, trying to offer comfort when he had no words.

She gasped, and it broke slightly on a sob. “She didn’t even say anything about me. What I’d done. She told me that her daughter hoped to become an ambassador, that she had joined the humanitarian mission to help make up for the crimes committed in Sokovia with stolen vibranium from, from here. She said Ata played the piano, and danced, and… and she’s _dead_ now.”

“You know it wasn’t your fault,” Steve said.

“I wished she would blame me,” Wanda continued, voice still hitching though she tried to keep her tone blank and level. “Is it selfish to wish she would tell me it’s my fault her daughter is dead?”

“You don’t want that,” Steve told her firmly. “Trust me.”

She turned to look at him again, and her eyes were pink at the edges where she had clearly been rubbing away tears. “They find you, too?”

He couldn’t reply. There was nothing he could say that would erase the pain and guilt of being put face-to-face with a mother grieving the loss of her child, or a husband whose wife was taken from him. A sister, or a brother, a child, all mourning in different ways: some furious, some heartbroken, and some filled with the desire for vengeance.

Steve had not set foot outside the palace since returning from the Raft. Bucky had gone more or less straight into cryo upon his arrival, and Clint, Scott, Sam, and Wanda had seen nothing of Wakanda but the palace’s hangar and interior walls. T’Challa had been understanding but very firm when explaining that he had a duty to his people that went above and beyond any duty he had to Steve and his friends.

To bring them to Wakanda and protect them from Ross and whoever else might be hunting them was one thing, but to openly flout them around was another entirely.

There was the other issue that probably most of his people would not be pleased to hear that Captain America and his rebels were being sheltered in Wakanda from international justice, and given free run of their nation. It was admittedly a rather widely suspected secret, but still officially a secret that the king had brought them here.

T’Challa made it very clear that he was helping them out of a responsibility to make amends for his sins against Bucky, and that while he did not intend to subject Steve and the others to the United States’ barbaric treatment of accused terrorists, he was not granting them any rights beyond permitting their presence in his home. Steve had had to agree to even further secrecy to get T’Challa to shelter Sam and the others from the Raft in Wakanda, when the original deal was simply to protect Bucky and, as part of the matched set, Steve himself.

The palace was better than the Raft, or anywhere else they might be held if captured by Ross or the JSOC teams—a gorgeous prison, but a prison nonetheless.

Steve understood that T’Challa was highly conflicted over the question of what to do with them from a legal standpoint, since they were undisputedly criminals under international law. But the king still had the misfortune of understanding their motivations, believing that they would be wasted in prison, and thinking them ultimately undeserving of the Raft, which is the only prison on the planet that had any hope of successfully containing them against their will.

They owed T’Challa everything. The more Steve thought about it, the less he wished he had time to—where would they be if T’Challa hadn’t taken them in? Where could they go?

Steve understood very well the difficult position their presence had put T’Challa in, since many Wakandans thought their king far too merciful. The guilt from that was bad enough, but the actual fear they were treated with was something infinitely worse.

Wanda caught the brunt of that fear, followed closely by Steve himself.

“Do they look at you like they look at me?” she asked him in a small voice, clenching her hands around her mug. “Like you are a curse?”

He had to shake his head, because they looked at Steve like he was something disgusting, repellant: like he might become violent at any moment, or betray anyone who showed him mercy or kindness, but for Wanda…

“They look at me, they call me an abomination,” she went on, voice as blank as she could manage, rough with hurt. “I was so foolish, so arrogant. I thought I could not control the fear of other people, only my own fear. What a stupid thing to believe.” She laughed, and it was a terrible sound. “I am so afraid. I can make people feel fear, I did that to you, to Natasha, to… all of you, I loved the power it gave me over you, making you weak with your own minds.

“I hoped that I was not a monster. That my powers had not changed me, and I think I might have been right—my powers did not make me want to hurt. I volunteered to be given them so that I would be able to hurt people as I had been hurt. To make others feel the fear I felt. To show them their worst nightmares, feel their worst pain. Steve, that is _monstrous_.”

Her voice cracked completely on the last word, and Steve could think of nothing to say.

She took several gulps of her cooling tea before speaking again. “I can always produce fear. But I cannot take it away. Once you are feared, it is not so easy to get rid of. I did not understand before what it was to be feared, to have people shy away when I walk past.” Her throat clenched, and her eyes welled up again. “They feared my power, and I thought there was nothing I could do to stop them, because I could not get rid of that power. Now I… I only think that I might be able to show them they did not need to fear my abilities. And instead…

“Instead I have confirmed all their worst fears,” she said, a sob breaking into her voice, and Steve carefully put an arm around her shoulders. “And I think Vision was right, he was right when he… he said that if I went with you, if I fought that battle, that people would never stop fearing me. He was right. I have confirmed a… worst case scenario. There is no… that fear can never be removed. I have proven myself a monster forever. I led my own brother to his death, and now I am, I am—”

She turned into the crook of Steve’s shoulder, releasing the death grip on her mug to clutch at Steve’s sweatshirt and heave sobs into his neck. He put his cheek on her hair and tried to think of anything he could say to comfort her.

But he could say nothing. There was no logical argument to be made, and there was certainly nothing he could do, because he had been tarred with the same brush. Anything Steve could try to do for her would only make things worse.

He had asked T’Challa to help her, to help all the others after their arrival, and the king had given him a highly unimpressed look.

“You cannot stay here forever,” he’d said. “It would not only benefit you for me to resolve this situation.”

T’Challa had looked away from Steve for a moment, and Steve and Sam had exchanged glances. They were in the royal office at the time, which looked more like a very small library than anything else, aside from the beautiful, no-doubt ancient desk in the center of the room, with windows both in front and behind it flooding the space with sunlight. T’Challa had walked over to that desk, gesturing for the other two men to sit on the chairs before it, and as they did he picked up his razor-thin tablet. After a few moments tapping at it, he walked back over and held it out to Steve.

When Steve had it in his hand, he could see an article from the New York Times, and it was about him. He read it in silence, feeling like there were cockroaches in his gut, while Sam read it over his arm.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Steve said finally, finishing the article and handing the tablet over to Sam before he cracked it by accident.

T’Challa was staring at him in that unnerving, I-am-trying-to-read-your-mind way he did when someone wasn’t talking like he wanted, arms folded, then he tipped his chin up slightly. “That is one of the more generous responses.”

Sam snorted, then began to sarcastically read a section aloud. “‘Although he has garnered recent attention for his instrumental role in hunting down and destroying Hydra bases across the world, beginning with the Nazi-infested S.H.I.E.L.D. Triskelion in Washington, D.C., his recent actions suggest that Captain America is not as patriotically-minded as we had all been led to believe. For a man who originally made a name for himself hunting down fascists in World War II, ol’ Cap seems remarkably unwilling to embrace core democratic values.’ What a load of—”

Sam may have stopped reading there, but Steve remembered the rest of it.

> _In the contentious series of investigations following the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., it has been established that the structure of the collapsed espionage organization was far more autocratic than the American people might have hoped, with widespread failures to implement checks and balances, catastrophic secrets weakening every level of its clearance system, and what has been described in reports as a ‘zealous faith in specific members of the leadership rather than the values and mandates of the organization itself.’_
> 
> _It is worth noting at this point that similar concerns were addressed during the Nuremburg Trials, not only with regard to the Nazi party itself, but specifically regarding Hydra as a subdivision of that party. To quote directly from William S. Kaplan’s private notes on the trial: ‘Though the entire Nazi structure hinges on the fanaticism surrounding their Führer, there is a sense of military precision to the main party that is entirely lacking from the deep science division known as Hydra. Their saying that cutting off one head will only produce more to replace it is made possible by a never-ending network of heads, each with their own secrets and departments, none connected by anything more than the common ideals of one man._
> 
> _‘Yet the death of Hydra founder Johann Schmidt has only shown that his power extends beyond the scope of his life, meaning that Hydra has truly become the many-headed monster with no central power to strike down.’_
> 
> _This lack of central accountability has also been proven in the S.H.I.E.L.D. investigations, which indicate that only Colonel Nicholas Fury, now deceased, held any centralized information in the organization. His assassination by Hydra makes it seem likely that he had managed to remain unaware of the Hydra cells growing within his ranks until they were ready to strike, but what is also clear is that the system of reliance on individual trust rather than checks and balances and a functional chain of command permitted a Nazi organization to grow—beneath the noses of some of our country’s greatest intelligence agents—into a worldwide threat._
> 
> _What is more concerning is how well Captain America fit into this secret web of an organization, apparently unquestioningly and without regard for whose orders he was following. He is known, along with former fellow Avenger Black Widow, a.k.a. ex-Russian spy Natasha Romanoff, to have worked on multiple occasions with Special Tactical Reserve for International Key Emergencies (S.T.R.I.K.E.) teams which have now been confirmed to be comprised almost entirely of Hydra agents._
> 
> _Even if Steve Rogers was or is not a part of Hydra, the ease with which he worked alongside them is as concerning as is the ease with which they infiltrated some of the highest ranks in the U.S. government, ultimately begging the question: was there really any practical difference between Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s methods, other than an ideological underpinning?_
> 
> _Furthermore, considering the Captain’s current flight from justice, recent aiding and abetting of a wanted war criminal and assassin, wanton violation of sovereign borders, release of dangerous prisoners and suspected terrorists from federal custody, and leading an aggravated assault on the few members of his team committed to putting the Avengers under the accountability of the United Nations—an intergovernmental peace organization—we must ask another difficult question: how far from authoritarianism do the Captain’s values really fall?_
> 
> _And if his disdain for democracy is so great that he would refuse to sign the Sokovia Accords, as endorsed at the time by 117 countries worldwide, and even go to war against the team he helped create—as well as the United States government and 116 other world governments in protest—did Steve Rogers ever truly deserve to be called _Captain America_?_

Steve was shaking again, like he had on the flight from Siberia to Wakanda in the quinjet. The plane T’Challa had brought there only seated one, so he'd had to fly them back on the man’s tail, while Bucky nursed the stump of what used to be his arm. He had been shaking so badly by the time they reached T’Challa’s home that he had performed one of his worst landings since Clint had taught him how to fly a jet.

“They’re just trying to sell advertising space, Steve,” Sam said brusquely, handing the tablet back over to T’Challa. “Trying to be controversial, get attention. It’s how they make money.”

“I don’t know that they’re entirely wrong,” T’Challa offered sternly, watching Steve for his reaction. “Under-informed, perhaps, but it’s not making an illogical argument.”

Sam barked something angrily in response, but T’Challa was just looking at Steve.

“None of that is what I wanted,” Steve managed to get out, which made Sam look over at him in alarm.

“What the hell, Steve, of course it isn’t—”

“No, I mean,” he drew in a breath. “They’re not entirely wrong. I didn’t question like I should have. I did take orders without thinking. I was… warned, once, not to do that, but it’s been so long, I…”

_Not a perfect soldier. But a good man._

“I forgot when to fight,” he muttered. “And fought when I shouldn’t have.”

Sam was blinking at him in shock. “Are you saying we should have signed the Accords?”

“No,” Steve said, vehemently. “No, they were too restrictive, too controlling.” He looked at T’Challa, searching for an answer. “But we could have… worked with them.”

Sam pressed his head into his hands for a second, then shook it and looked up at Steve, his eyes hot. “Now? _Now_ you say this? Where was this when they were being ratified in Vienna? Where was this when—”

“Sam,” T’Challa interjected firmly.

Sam threw up his hands and stood up out of his seat. “I’m going to cool off. Catch you later, Steve. Your Majesty.” He bowed his head briefly in T’Challa’s direction before departing.

The king looked like he wanted to sigh but was just too darn dignified.

So Steve did it for him. “Do you think they’re right?”

“I think that the media lies,” T’Challa said instead. “And that you can never know the truth about a person until you really know that person.”

Steve looked at him, contemplatively. “Is that why you brought me here?”

A little smile twitched at the corner of T’Challa’s mouth, which was very obviously a _yes_. “I had no intention of turning you over to that warmonger, Ross, nor to the torture your government seems to think is still acceptable. But as for what I would do with you once you arrived in my country,” He shrugged a little, hands curled around the lip of the desk behind him. “That would depend entirely on you.”

Though T’Challa didn’t seem to particularly like Steve, he didn’t actively dislike him, and had offered them so much generosity that Steve couldn’t bring himself to care that the king sometimes shared a certain look of concerned anticipation with many of his citizens. Like he was certain Steve was going to cause trouble, but wasn’t quite sure yet how bad it would be.

All things considered, Steve supposed a certain amount of wariness was warranted. The thought still stung, though, that the man he held so much respect for thought so little of him, however well he might have earned that mistrust.

Not least because recently Steve seemed to have accrued a reputation for biting the hand that shelters him. He’d since figured out, timeline-wise, that Tony confined Wanda to the Compound as soon as he got wind of Steve and Sam attacking police in Romania and, through some pointed suggestions from T’Challa, had discovered that the world pretty much freaked the fuck out when footage of Captain America being arrested for various violent crimes on foreign soil was broadcast on live TV, not to mention social media.

Steve had the world sparking like a live wire, and it would have taken almost nothing for it to become a consuming fire.

He could admit now that as much as he hated that Tony was confining Wanda against her will, he understood the impulse to protect her from the mess Steve had made. He’d blamed Tony, as if Tony were doing it out of spite, or for fun, or whatever the hell he had thought when, really, Tony just seemed to have been spending the last few months desperately trying to extinguish fires that Steve was setting with abandon.

There was also the fact that Tony had no real ability to confine Wanda against her will. She was more powerful than the rest of the Avengers combined, and she would not have been contained in the Compound if she really wanted to leave.

Since she had arrived in Wakanda, T’Challa had also informed them that most of the stipulations of Wanda’s U.S. visa had indeed been revoked a few days after the catastrophe in Lagos, and that she had no right to be anywhere in the U.S. other than her place of residence, and that only after heavy protest from the Avengers’ legal team. Perhaps it wasn’t even Tony’s idea to confine her to the Compound at all, but rather just strict compliance with the law in an attempt to show that the Avengers still had some good faith, somewhere, as Steve and Sam stomped all over international law and sovereign states across the Atlantic.

“I have to ask,” Steve said, not looking at Wanda as she took another sip from her mug, having calmed enough to at least stop sobbing into his shoulder. He had to ask because this question had been burning at him for months now. “When you gave us visions… me, Nat, Thor… did you do that to Tony?”

She closed her eyes, and nodded.

Steve took in a deep breath through his nose. “On the ship?”

Wanda shook her head, and pulled her lower lip briefly into her mouth before answering. “In Sokovia. In Strucker’s castle.”

He couldn’t help but blink at her. “When we took the scepter?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice gravelly. “When he found it, I found him.”

Steve stared at her, mind racing. “You were there when he took it? Why didn’t you stop him?”

She physically winced then, her face pinching with emotions—regret, pain, sorrow. “I wanted him to take it, I wanted to watch him… break.”

Her voice was very small on the last word, but it went through Steve like a seismic wave.

“What was the vision?” he demanded. “What did you show him?”

Because his had been his own personal hell. War seeping into his life, ruining his return to humanity, bleeding into his love for Peggy and their fantasy of a dance that would never, _ever_ take place now. His driving fear—that there could be no home for him anymore. That he was ruined for it for the rest of his life.

But Wanda just frowned, unable to look at him. “I couldn’t see into your minds, could only read… flashes. Responses. I saw… no, it's not my place to tell you his fears, any more than you told him yours.”

Steve was willing to accept that, understanding her attempt to maintain some semblance of privacy—when Wanda suddenly spoke again, as if she couldn’t quite contain the words. “But I felt his terror. He was… horrified by… what he saw. It filled him with fear and I thought—I enjoyed it, feeling him suffer like Pietro and I had suffered…”

She drained the rest of her tea and pushed the mug away, her hands jittering with nerves. “I told you about the bomb, the rebels, I told you we waited in the apartment for days for Tony Stark to kill us. And then I went to live in a mansion he had built, wore clothes he bought for me, ate food he provided, and I felt like a traitor to my brother, to my parents, and myself. How could I take these things from the man who had taken everything from me? I—I _hated_ him for helping me.

“But… he was _kind_ to me. He was kind. And he was in meetings with senators, doing interviews, still having to defend his choice to stop making weapons and I did not understand then.” She jumped up from the bar stool suddenly, grabbed her empty mug and went to rinse it out in the sink.

As she set it on the drying rack, she kept her back to Steve and broke the heavy silence that had taken over the kitchen. “He was already suffering. My desire to hurt him did not simply hurt him… if he were a weaker person, I would have broken him. Just as it was, the fear I caused led him to create…”

She shook her head, clearly unsure of how to refer to the homicidal artificial intelligence she had willingly worked for, however briefly.

“I was the reason he stopped making weapons. People like me. People… like him. Targets of weapons out of his control. I wished to punish him for killing my parents.” She curled her arms around herself, crumpling the baggy t-shirt she was wearing as a nightdress, and turned to look at Steve with deep pain in her eyes. “There is nothing I could do to him that he wasn’t already doing to himself. What he saw—what I saw, the guilt, the responsibility… I am no longer surprised he was desperate to hand off some of that responsibility to someone, or something he could trust.”

Steve was staring at her, listening intently but also thinking furiously. It would not be wise to ignore Wanda’s insight since, if nothing else, she had actually seen inside Tony’s mind. But it was difficult, if not perhaps impossible, to imagine that Tony really did feel as guilty as she said he did.

Taking responsibility was not the same as abdicating it, and only a coward would foist the difficult choices off on someone else to spare themselves the trouble.

But on the other hand… Tony had wanted to help Bucky. Steve had had plenty time to think about that, to wonder about that now. The earnestness in Tony’s voice as he told Steve they could keep Bucky out of prison and in proper psychiatric care. At the time, Steve wasn’t sure he even believed Tony was telling the truth. He had become so used to defending Bucky’s innocence that it seemed too jarring to believe Tony might not have agreed with the rest of the world that he needed to be strung up on a pyre.

Because if what Wanda was saying was true, then Tony had to understand that Bucky was as culpable for the actions of the Winter Soldier as Tony was for the actions people undertook with his weapons—acquired legally or otherwise. That what Wanda felt when she saw the devastation she had unwittingly caused in Lagos mirrored what she thought Tony felt, when he saw the destruction created by his inventions.

But if that were true, then Tony should have known that—as he was not responsible for the deaths of Wanda’s parents with one of his bombs—Bucky was not responsible for the deaths of Tony’s parents at the hands of the Winter Soldier.

And clearly, Tony had not thought of it that way in Siberia.

He knew very well that Tony was selfish. Self-important and narcissistic, often assuming that the Avengers’ mistakes as a whole were his own personal responsibility. Steve used to think that was the height of arrogance, but… he wondered what Wanda thought of it. If her insight into Tony’s mind showed her something different. If she perhaps understood the way Tony took her failure in Lagos onto his own shoulders.

Then… if Tony felt responsible for the actions of the Avengers, the team he almost singlehandedly funded and eagerly participated in when he was able to, god, the pressure of their mistakes would be crushing. It didn’t justify trying to save the earth by any means necessary, but Steve wasn’t unfamiliar with the feeling of overwhelming, suffocating pressure to act on behalf of the whole world.

He wished Tony were here. So he could talk to him. He had so many questions to ask, wondering how incorrectly he might have filtered Tony’s actions under the wrong assumptions.

He thinks of the hours he and Tony used to spend together at the Tower, then sometimes at the Compound, talking but not really communicating, or sitting in silence as they each did their own drudgery. Tony had reams of work to complete each week for his company, for the Avengers, plus research and proofing and Steve didn’t really know what else. He never cared much to ask. Any one of those quiet hours Steve could have asked Tony—anything. Why he fought. What he feared. What he hoped to accomplish.

But Steve had just never cared, comfortable with his assumptions and not even thinking that he could have been wrong, could really have been viscerally _wrong_ about Tony.

Things had changed, now, and Steve was growing more uncomfortably aware with every passing day that he could have been _wrong_. That Tony had so sarcastically told Steve how well he knew him when they were discussing the Accords, how Steve hadn’t listened to Tony’s explanation because he already knew Tony was wrong. Rhodes had called him dangerously arrogant, which had struck a furious nerve—perhaps because… was it possible that he was right, in a way? Was it arrogance to want to keep control of your own actions? To take responsibility for your own mistakes? Steve didn’t think so.

But it may very well have been dangerous. It may very well have led to a war.

And he hadn’t cared to find out why Rhodes, Tony, or even Nat were overlooking such a crucial detail. He had just assumed they were wrong. The blindness… Steve cringed at himself. How could he call himself a tactician when he willfully ignored obvious points and sources of information? Had he been willingly operating at an intelligence deficit, when he knew all too well the difference even the smallest piece of information could make been success and failure—life and death?

T’Challa had been talking to him about a leader being someone who listens, and if that was true, Steve was a horrible leader and a terrible C.O. Had he always been that way?

No—he had listened to the Commandos. He vividly remembers hundreds of spirited, good-natured shouting matches about strategy and so forth while they were tearing around Europe, gleefully blowing up anything with so much as a hint of a tentacle on it.

Had he listened to the Avengers? Had he asked their opinions and considered their knowledge, experience, and especially their objections?

He looked over at Wanda, who was still standing at the sink with her arms wrapped around herself, clearly as lost in thought as Steve was. A kid. Steve had called her a kid to Tony, as if Tony was some monstrosity of a child abuser, locking his daughter in her room for some insignificant sin like not eating all her vegetables or not taking out the trash.

Steve had defended her as if she had done nothing wrong. As if there were no reason to contain her. As if she were harmless.

Not only was Wanda not harmless—as she had proven by (according to Clint) “totally annihilating” Vision as the pair of them escaped the Compound to come to Germany—but she was not a kid, either. A few months ago they had celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday. She was the same age Steve had been when he went through Rebirth.

Steve sucked in a breath a little raggedly, and perhaps a little panicked.

Had he been so ready to side with Wanda that he had cast Tony as the villain by default?

Even Sam, once he heard about it, had cornered Steve to scold him about taking Wanda’s word for it that Tony would be willing to destroy the planet trying to protect it, when Wanda was some girl they had just met, who had just sent the team spiraling into nightmares and fallen in line behind some megalomaniacal killer robot—while Tony was a man he had fought beside for years now, who went above and beyond almost every day to serve his team, his country, and even Steve personally.

Wanda had told him during one of these sleepless Wakandan nights that she was afraid of following anyone ever again—that she feared the Accords because she, like Steve, did not want to be controlled by the whims and wills of others, or put her enormous power in their hands. Now Steve had to wonder, that if Ultron—and Tony—were not able to tell the difference between saving the world and destroying it, Wanda apparently couldn’t tell the difference between following Hydra, following a murderous, psychopathic A.I., and following the United Nations. Because those were the three different groups that had sought to control her, the powers she was equating.

Steve breathed in deeply, feeling his heart pounding a little too fast in his chest, so that he could almost see his ribs move with its rhythm in his peripherals. What mistake was he making, then? Was he making the same mistake as Wanda, to compare S.H.I.E.L.D. to the U.N.? Both were government agencies, both filled with people with their own secret agendas beneath whatever face they presented to the public, benevolent or otherwise.

There was a good reason the U.N. did not have a dedicated military, and Steve was by no means interested in filling that role as their designated dogsbody, snapping to attention when summoned and obediently backing away when instructed.

No, he was right to be wary. But for others, looking at Wanda, and perhaps assessing his concerns in the same way he assessed hers… no wonder people thought they were dangerous, if it looked like the Avengers couldn’t distinguish between following sociopathic robots, secret Nazis, and genuine government officials.

None of which could have been helped by the horrendous death S.H.I.E.L.D. had died, and Steve could hardly blame anyone for being leery after that happened, considering his own response.

But that was why the Avengers were supposed to be independent. Working from their own angle, which was purely to protect and defend people. No government involvement, no politics, no posturing. He still couldn’t understand why Tony and the others would be willing to throw away that incredible neutrality, and throw their lot in again with people seeking to control the powerhouse that was the Avengers for their own ends.

Only now—now that it wasn’t possible—Steve found that he was itching to ask. Wanted to seek out Tony, or Nat, and actually _ask_ what the hell they were thinking, try to understand. Try to explain to them how wrong they were, how dangerous this would turn out to be. Try to get them on his side.

He was at something of a loss to understand his own refusal to discuss this with them. Was it even possible that he hadn’t recognized the value of having the Black Widow and Iron Man side with him on this? Lend their weight to his argument for freedom? Had he allowed himself to become so consumed with Peggy’s death, his last tangible link to the life he had led before, that he allowed his new life to bleed out on the ground without even trying to do anything about it?

Even if he could go back in time and change his actions, he would never have signed the Accords—but here in his exile, at the very least there were some faces he was desperate to see.

He watched the news devotedly, hoping to find out what was happening with the Avengers, with the Accords: but mostly what the news was reporting with regards to both topics was Steve and the Raft break. Tony had been accused of assisting with the breakout, but since he really had been completely uninvolved, there was no evidence to be found and the case was dismissed before he was formally charged with a crime. Steve was breathlessly relieved – he had hardly considered that people might think Tony had anything to do with the Raft breakout after their battle in Germany.

He supposed the public still thought the Avengers had been a lot closer than they really were.

“It’s four in the damn morning, _what_ are you two doing up?”

Steve was jogged from his dismal thoughts by Sam’s voice—as was Wanda, if the little jerk and sudden shock of red energy that curled around her protectively was any indication. She relaxed when she saw Sam, staggering into the room in a sweatshirt and blue tartan boxer shorts, squinting almost comically in the dimmed OLEDs of the kitchen overheads.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Steve answered for both of them.

Sam glared sleepily at him. “It’s too damn early for this.”

“You’re awake too,” Wanda clearly couldn’t help but point out, smoothing down the front of her t-shirt and playing with its hem awkwardly.

Sam turned his glare on her. “I have a sixth sense for moping.”

Steve sighed, and stood up. He didn’t really want to talk to Wanda anymore, and wasn’t overly keen on sitting in the kitchen any longer either, heading down the same dark, mournful avenues of thought Sam had just interrupted. He announced quietly that he was heading down to the gym, at which Sam glared even more before snapping that he was coming too and to wait for him.

Waiting on his grouchy morning friend to put some decent clothing on, after Wanda slunk back to the room she shared with Clint, Steve tried his best not to think of the endless questions he had for Tony, if he could only _talk_ to him.

At first he’d been in utter disbelief that the phone had gone unanswered—then enraged. And now he was starting to feel, more than a little reluctantly, frustrated and completely helpless.

How the hell were he and Tony supposed to communicate, to sort this mess out, if Tony was going to ignore Steve’s peace offering?

Tony had offered Steve plenty of similar offerings in the days leading up to their disaster, and now he was going to childishly refuse Steve the same courtesy?

Sam arrived before his thoughts could get too dark, and they made their way to the gym together in the pitch black early morning. Sam kept looking at Steve as they went, a little unnervingly at first, then in some concern, and Steve wondered if it was really that obvious why he was not sleeping, when his body definitely needed the rest.

That night, it became clear that it absolutely had been that obvious. Moments after Steve retreated to his room, there was a chime at the entry panel and he’d opened the door to find Sam standing there, his few possessions donated by T’Challa in his arms. Sam had stared him down, then simply pushed past Steve into the bedroom, quietly set away his things, and slipped into the bed by the window.

Steve didn’t really know what to do with what was apparently his new roommate, so he just finished up in the bathroom and got into the second bed nearer the bathroom door, the one he’d been using the entire time in the suite so far.

His mind had a slightly different horror in store for him that night: replaying the gruesome deaths of Howard and Maria Stark. But playing them from a first person perspective. Where the Winter Soldier’s metal arm had gripped and beaten in Howard’s terribly fragile skull, it was Steve’s arm encased in his Captain America uniform. Where the Winter Soldier’s flesh hand had casually wrapped around Maria’s throat and squeezed tighter and tighter until she fainted, before snapping the neck to simulate whiplash, it was Steve’s hand, Steve’s blank face above the roof of the car.

It was Steve hearing her whimper and feeling her throat work frantically beneath his hand, his own arm that her weak fingers gripped and tried desperately to pull away from her.

And there was a little boy in the back seat of the car.

Steve didn’t see his face, just his eyes—huge, and brown, glistening with horror. He knew it was Tony though he didn’t recognize him, and once Maria was dead and posed he popped open the back door of the car and reached for the little boy who didn’t even shy away from his bloodied hand, just stared at him with wide, disbelieving—

“ _Steve_!”

He jerked once, then reached out instantly to grab his attacker’s throat.

But Sam was not close enough to touch, knowing far better than to shake a sleeping supersoldier out of a nightmare. He was sitting on the edge of his own bed, mussed and rumpled but staring at Steve in visible concern.

Steve stared back at him, panting, feeling his body itch with a sheen of sweat, and waiting for the dregs of the dream to leave him alone.

The two men continued looking at each other until Steve’s breathing had evened out, which was when Sam faltered—tipping forward like he was going to get up and get into Steve’s bed with him, then rocking back as he considered all the ways in which that might make Steve’s panic worse, or put Sam in actual physical danger. He eventually settled for cuing up the sound system on the nightstand to play the sounds of a city at night, and rolled back under the covers of his own bed.

The next night, Steve was mercifully woken up out of another horror, but saw Sam still soundly asleep. The lights in the room had come up just a little, enough to awaken him gently. His gut clenched—that feature had been programmed into his bedrooms in the Tower and the Compound, easing him from fitful sleep when necessary without sending him into a panic.

For the first time, Steve wondered where FRIDAY had leaned to do that.

Something tightened like a fist inside him, and he was pretty sure he recognized regret by now. But this time it came with something else. He didn’t have a name for it—horror, dread, and all of it undercut by a burst of desire to be somewhere else, anywhere else but here.

He desperately wanted to go home.

  
 

•

 

Almost two weeks after being extracted from federal custody, Sam went to T’Challa’s office and asked for a secure phone line back to the States.

The king had demanded a good explanation, which Sam had expected. After all, their entire presence in the country had to be the world’s worst ongoing headache for the young monarch, and he was still decidedly unhappy with the idea of any of them so much as poking their heads over the palace’s outer walls. Nobody would actually be stupid enough to invade Wakanda looking for international fugitives, but T’Challa still had no desire to rock the political boat with arguably the most contentious international criminals of the century.

After Sam explained, T’Challa had given his permission and tracked down the number, so today was the day. Sam waited tensely as the line rang, pressing the phone to his ear and feeling as nervous as he had as a kid, calling to ask a girl in his class out for burgers.

“Rhodes,” came down the line eventually.

Even after his long wait, Sam still had to gather his nerve for a moment before speaking. “Colonel. It’s the Sergeant.”

Rhodes either recognized his voice or simply figured out who it was, since Sam was probably the only person he knew with that rank who wouldn’t want to use his name on even the most heavily encrypted of satellite connections.

The other man took a breath. “Are you okay?”

Sam was flooded with disproportionate—and probably preemptive—relief. “Fine. We’re all fine.”

“What do you want, Sergeant?”

“Did he tell you I said—”

“He passed it along.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Rhodes sighed. “For what?”

Sam paused, a little confused by the question. There was no way Rhodes didn’t know what he was referring to. And T’Challa had made it very clear that Sam could not divulge any information that could constitute proof of his identity in any way, so he could hardly just remind the colonel of something he couldn’t have possibly _forgotten_.

After a moment, he got the sinking feeling Rhodes was pulling that infuriating double talk that most of the Avengers began pulling on each other at some point or another. That Rhodes wasn’t really asking Sam what he’d done to him that required forgiveness, but what crime Sam had committed that he _felt_ required forgiveness.

He hated this underhanded crap. Dammit, Jim, he was a soldier, not an assassin, not an engineer, not a damn spy. He wondered where Rhodes had picked up this nasty little habit—then realized that, of course, it was Tony; the reigning king of never saying what he meant.

“For putting you in danger.”

On the other end of the call, he heard some infuriated muttering, and supposed he’d failed to use the double speak properly.

But Rhodes came back with a different complaint entirely. “There we go again, everyone acting like I didn’t make my own damn choices. You of all people should know that soldiers are always put at risk when we go into battle.”

Sam frowned at the wall, tucking his free hand under the opposite armpit. “I’m still sorry for my role in it.”

“You want me to forgive you?”

Sam wasn’t sure. He didn’t know what he really wanted from Rhodes, except perhaps just for the man to know that he had never wanted him to get hurt because of Sam. But he supposed Rhodes had a point—that Sam was not responsible for the man catching a blast meant for him. That it was perhaps even arrogant and selfish to expect forgiveness for his part in Rhodes’s choices and injury. That it took away the dignity of Rhodes’s decision to fight.

He stayed silent for far too long, and Rhodes apparently decided to take pity on him, speaking again with a bit of a sigh in his voice. “What do you think I should forgive you for?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted. If Rhodes had already absolved him of his guilt for accidently putting him in the line of fire, then he didn’t know what he had done wrong, really.

Rhodes stayed quiet. Then, sounding a little uncharacteristically hesitant: “But you think you need forgiveness?”

Sam walked a few steps forward and set his forehead against the grey wall, pressing against it determinedly. “Yes.”

It wasn’t really fair to put this on Rhodes: not only to request that the man forgive him, but also to ask him to identify the crime Sam had committed against him.

Or maybe it was the only way Sam had to demonstrate any sort of real respect for the other soldier.

He elaborated. “I fought you, I chose a different side from you, and you’re the only one who got hurt. I’m sorry for that.”

“The only one who got hurt,” Rhodes repeated dangerously.

Sam felt a rush of probably very inappropriate relief that he finally seemed to have struck a nerve, and maybe made some actual progress in making peace with Rhodes.

But the colonel’s phrasing implied that he was not the only one hurt, and Sam couldn’t help but think of Steve gasping awake almost every night from dreams he categorically refused to share with any of the rest of them. In all the time they’d been friends, Sam had never seen Steve that torn up, and he somehow figured that it wasn’t the events Sam already knew of that had caused the change.

He wondered what the mysterious events in Siberia had done to Tony, if Steve was this broken up about it.

“I suppose I should be glad you’re at least _trying_ to pull your head out of your ass,” Rhodes bit out. “But you still really don’t get it, do you?”

Sam stayed quiet, trying to really listen this time instead of jumping in heedlessly. Once, he had prided himself on his ability to understand other people, but if the civil war had shown him anything, it was that his skill at reading other people’s perspectives had been blunted, taken heavy damage at some point without him noticing. He was flooded once more with shame for following Steve blindly, assuming that Steve knew the way and not bothering to ask his own questions.

He wondered if he would be paying for that short-sightedness in exile for the _rest of his life_.

He was overwhelmed, suddenly, with fear for the future, and he turned to sink down the wall and sit on the floor in T’Challa’s empty office.

Rhodes continued bitingly. “I’m not angry that you chose the other side. I’m angry that there were sides to choose. I didn’t get hurt because I was fighting bad guys, or because I was at war. I didn’t lose my legs heroically defeating some alien incursion, or preventing the deaths of civilians. I lost them fighting the people who were supposed to have my _back_.

“‘Civil war,’ my ass,” he said in an ugly tone Sam supposed he’d well earned. “Can you believe that’s what they’re calling it? As if it was some grand, historic event, instead of a group of people who refused to cooperate beating the shit out of each other on the tarmac of some random German airport. If I have to use that damn metaphor, then _you_ chose to secede—you chose to start a war that never needed to happen.”

Sam sent a mental apology to T’Challa for that highly incriminating deluge of information, but didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t need you to apologize for dodging a deadly weapon,” Rhodes said dryly. “I don’t want you to. If you’re going to bother asking me for my forgiveness, you ask me to forgive you for the crime of starting a war that never needed to take place. You apologize for jumping straight from disagreeing with us over some political debate to fucking _shooting_ at us as we tried to enforce the laws you were knowingly, deliberately breaking.”

Rhodes sighed, and was silent for a few moments while still leaving the promise of continuing in the air, so Sam said nothing, just waiting.

“You want to apologize to _me_ , a fellow airman, for sticking your middle fingers up at the promise of oversight. Sergeant, you swear to me that if I give you my forgiveness, you will stop acting like a child, and you’ll at least _try_ to agree that a dangerous body like the Avengers cannot operate as a private army anymore. You promise me that you don’t just want to keep all the power for yourself, that you really want to help people and that you’re willing to make real sacrifices to do that, like giving up your autonomy to make people feel safe.”

Sam swallowed down an unproductive retort. “And if I can’t make those promises?”

Rhodes sent a disapproving silence down the line, then sighed. “You know, sometimes I think Loki was right. That humans crave subjugation. As a mass, you know. They want a god, want a hero to believe in. We love to tear down our heroes more than just about anything else, but we always have to build someone else back up to replace them. People always want to know that _someone_ has power over them, as long as they can pretend that power is on their terms. Knowing that something or someone has responsibility for them and the power to back it up, it makes them feel safe.

“At least, it does right up until they realize that the power they admire isn’t for them. When a politician has sex they shouldn’t, or a police officer goes too far, or a soldier kills someone they shouldn’t have. There’s a balance between power that’s comforting and power that’s terrifying, and it’s mostly that people need to feel like they gave their permission to be put under it.

“All your ‘war’ did was remind everyone on the planet that you fight for yourselves, so now all that world-changing power is a _threat_. Nobody really, truly believes soldiers are a threat to the public for all that we easily could be, because we can’t hide from accountability. And Tony has never been able to hide from the public his entire life. Do you think it was easy for him to admit that he was Iron Man, when S.H.I.E.L.D. and the government and pretty much every powerful person in the country was telling him to keep his mouth shut? But if he had kept it a secret, then Iron Man wouldn’t have been accountable to anybody, and he had just finished telling the whole damn world that he was done letting them deal under the table in his name.”

Sam froze, suddenly feeling like he’d been given the missing piece of a puzzle that had been driving him crazy for weeks on end. He’d twisted himself into a pretzel trying to understand how Tony Stark could be okay with being under government control, and yet here was the answer, plain and simple.

Tony had been seeking accountability from the start, and after the disaster of Ultron, was it really so surprising that he resorted to drastic measures?

Rhodes kept on talking as Sam started to think maybe he and Tony Stark seriously needed to sit down and have a conversation.

“They may think we’re assholes, or war criminals, but deep down, they know we serve them,” Rhodes insisted. “Why do you think Tony escaped what happened in Russia without consequences? But you? You are the villain. You and Cap have finally… _finally_ accomplished what Tony has been trying to do for _years_ , and you did it in the worst possible way. You showed everyone that Captain America and his sidekicks aren’t the epitome of good, which means that we aren’t the epitome of evil for opposing you. So thank you, for that, I guess. And now we all have to live in this hole you’ve dug.

“Because whether you deserve it or not, we’re not leaving you, because we need you. But we need you sane, and facing the _right fucking direction_.”

Rhodes seemed to have scolded himself out, and now he just sounded tired. “Ross provided grounds for the Accords’ termination by imprisoning you without fair trial. He showed his bias, which could have… even when you got thrown in jail you were doing good, dammit, Sam! But now that’s Steve’s busted you out, we can’t use it against Ross, you’ve only made it easier for him! Yet again, you made everything ten times harder than it needed to be by refusing to _think_. By refusing to acknowledge the fucking _law_.

“You think Tony was kidding when he said the Accords were the best alternative to something worse? He told Steve that, he told Steve that pretty much word for word, that it was the Accords now or something worse later. You tell Steve, that sanctimonious little shit, you tell him that he didn’t listen to _anyone_ telling him he was only making things worse, and guess what? It’s worse. It’s a nightmare. All you had to do was negotiate, but you were just too damn proud.” 

Sam was bristling at the accusations, and finally found a break in Rhodes’s speech. “If it was that serious, why didn’t Tony tell us about it before Ross gave us a _three day deadline_?” 

Rhodes made a sound like a snarl disguised as a sigh. “Because that’s what Tony _does_. The idiot grins at you and tells you he’s fine when he’s bleeding out all over the ground. Did you know he was dying of palladium poisoning from the first arc reactor during that spiral when Nat met him? Well, neither did I. Nobody knew. He didn’t tell anyone he was literally, imminently _dying_.” Rhodes sounded ragged; the events of years ago were clearly still fresh and painful in his mind. “He’s convinced he’s a burden on everyone he knows, that he’s nothing more than a pest and that all he can do to make up for it is to keep everything he possibly can from harming the people he cares about—” 

Rhodes stopped, groaning. “Why am I telling you this? You don’t deserve to hear this. Yeah, Tony fucked up, but he was trying to protect you the only way he knows how in his messed up, emotionally crippled way. You and Steve stabbed him in the back, broke mine, and you know what, Sam? How _dare_ you ask for my forgiveness?” 

The line went dead. 

Sam pressed the button to end the call on his end by rote, staring straight ahead and feeling his world collapse around him yet again. It was beginning to look like the full extent of his mistakes would never stop being painstakingly revealed. 

He had only wanted to do the right thing, and it honestly never occurred to him that maybe Tony and Rhodes were doing the same. Nat openly admitted that she only supported the Accords because doing so would keep their family safe, and betrayed them at pretty much the earliest possible opportunity, but Tony and Rhodes had been behind the Accords ideologically from the start. 

And Sam hadn’t tried to find out why—only tried to convince them they were wrong. Saw no merit in the Accords and wasn’t willing to try to find it. All that stubbornness had led them here: the Avengers destroyed, Rhodes perhaps permanently disabled, Sam and the others _exiled_ , Steve living in a waking and unconscious nightmare, and he didn’t even want to know how Tony… 

He laced his fingers together over the back of his neck, and tried to calm down enough to think. 

 

•

 

Every day between the hours of 9:00pm and 11:00pm, Clint sat in the living room in the center of all their suites on the satellite phone.

Steve hadn’t been there the first day he’d done it, for which he was shamefully grateful. That first day, Clint had called his home phone and had only had time, after she picked up, to say _Honey_ in a broken voice, before his wife hung up on him. He’d sat in shock for a while, according to Scott, but immediately called her back. This time, she simply hadn’t picked up the phone.

Every day, between the hours of 9:00pm and 11:00pm, or 1:00pm and 3:00pm Ohio time, Clint sat by the phone and called his wife every fifteen minutes, alternating between the homestead’s secret landline and her cell.

And for those two long hours, the phones rang out, and out, and out.

After that he would check whatever site he had to message with Natasha, searching for some word from her, but every day he found no trace.

The strain of their situation was wearing on him far more visibly than on the rest of them. Steve didn’t know if that was his age, or the fact that he had not just lost a way of life but his _wife_ , and his three babies, and his best friend.

Steve’s best friend was lost to him too, but at least Steve could go check in on him.

Today Steve sat beside Clint on the sofa, offering silent solidarity as his calls went unanswered one by one, since there wasn’t anything else he could possibly offer the man. And it wasn’t as though Steve didn’t miss Nat too, because he did: deep in his chest, like he’d been struck there and the bruise refused to heal.

Her disappearance was total. She had simply vanished from everyone’s radars. She was not with Tony and the remaining Avengers, and though they had all silently hoped she might turn up in Wakanda, they hadn’t seen one red hair of her since Germany.

It was Natasha, in some ways more than anyone else, who Steve needed to see, and to apologize to. Once, she had asked him if he would trust her with his life, if it ever came down to that. He’d told her he absolutely would, not realizing—even as he told her he never lied—that he was buying into his own fantasy persona.

Because he clearly didn’t trust Nat. Not only would he probably not truly trust her with his life, but he hadn’t even trusted her judgment. Had brushed away her council and wisdom without a second thought. He had cast her as a traitor as soon as she dared to speak up in support of signing the Accords. And even then, after he discounted her, she had proven her loyalty to him by allowing him and Bucky to go free, despite the consequences that would surely come down on her for it. When he’d asked T’Challa, the king had stoically confirmed that he had informed Ross—and Tony—of Natasha’s betrayal in the hangar, which at least explained why she was no longer welcome at the Avengers’ Compound.

Nat’s argument for signing the Accords was that it would be a farce anyway—merely a show of cooperation by the Avengers for people whose feathers were ruffled. Even she had thought that they seemed to be the least of all evils, considering the way the team’s reputation had been suffering in the months since Ultron, coming to a crescendo in Nigeria.

At the time, Steve had considered her opinion to be cowardly. The weak way out, the easy option. He thought that he needed to fight against these restrictions, not bow down to them. As with all bullies, the only real way to deal with them was to keep getting up, keep fighting, because as soon as you started surrendering they would never let you stop. You would spend the rest of your life with them snapping at your heels.

Considering the state he was in now, though, Steve thought it would be foolish not to at least reconsider his position. Because the bullies he was talking about were not a group of neighborhood kids too big for their britches, nor even one of the mob families of Depression-era New York. There was nowhere to run from the U.N., nowhere to hide. Though they had been given asylum in Wakanda, T’Challa had been blunt with Steve that it was by no means a secret that they were there, not to anyone with access to an intelligence network.

Wakanda had become quite literally the only country on the planet where Steve and his friends would not be _personae non gratae_.

And with that global scale in mind, Steve was forced to admit that standing up to the U.N. was perhaps not the brave option but the stupid one. Globalization had blindsided him before, but never to this extent. He had thought he was standing up for his right to help people, to not be subjected to political bullshit and all that red tape that went along with it, to just be able to offer uncomplicated protection and security to the average civilian.

What he had done instead was back himself into a corner, where he suddenly had even less freedom to act than if he had signed those damn Accords.

Steve loathed this: the lack of options, the helplessness and inability to _do anything_. Worse than backed into a corner, he felt like he’d backed himself out of the top window of a hundred-storey burning building, standing precariously on the window ledge with flames licking at the pane behind him, clutching onto the frame by his fingertips and only just now willing to look down and see the dizzying drop before him.

Once upon a time, that building would have been smaller, and Steve would have been able to jump to freedom. But now, in the future, everything was so much bigger: the consequences so much direr, and strategies that would have gotten him by just fine in the 1940s were hopelessly small-minded in the 2010s. This was just the latest time Steve had been blindsided by the extent of the government’s reach, but certainly the most jarring.

He’d always thought of the U.N. simply as the new League of Nations—ineffectual, embarrassing, and ultimately too weak for its own good. He was slowly being forced to realize how wrong he’d been to think he could escape them as easily as the Axis countries had escaped the L.N.

Now that he was here, a fugitive from justice, more powerless than he had ever been in his entire life—living in a realm of uselessness that extended far beyond the scope of his frail body—, Steve was finally beginning to appreciate the concept of legality, like a drowning man suddenly finding himself appreciating oxygen.

Steve had never really operated outside the law before. The laws of war were malleable at best, and even if they hadn’t been, Steve had never done anything that he would ever feel guilty about. He had never killed outside of a firefight, never harmed a civilian, treated anyone they took hostage with as much respect as was reasonable. Once the war was over, he had gone straight into service with S.H.I.E.L.D., which was, for all Nick Fury’s pride and posturing, a government agency with international recognition and jurisdiction.

It was only when S.H.I.E.L.D. fell that Steve may admittedly have crossed into murky waters. The Avengers were generally regarded as an organization of good faith—volunteers and good Samaritans. At least, each time they were sued or attacked, their easy reasoning and successful defenses were the Good Samaritan laws. And Steve found himself preferring this new independence to his old methods, independence that let the Avengers help wherever they were needed without politics sullying the way.

It was shameful to even think it, but Steve was trying to be honest with himself. He wondered if he had had such a powerfully negative reaction to the Accords partly because they were trying to take away that newfound freedom.

After all, his stint with S.H.I.E.L.D. had not been so much his choice as a total lack of options. S.H.I.E.L.D. had found him, defrosted him, and they were the go-to organization at the time for the weird and extraordinary, as the S.S.R. had been during the war. Steve could hardly rejoin the army and be fawned over and sent to kill people in a war he could barely even understand, and the very concept of a civilian life after years at war and then all those decades of absence was mind-numbingly terrifying.

Simply going back to life in the 40s would have been difficult, if not impossible, after his unusually bizarre wartime experiences and decidedly unique skill set—not to mention the unwanted and pervasive fame heaped upon him—even if the government had let him go back after the war was over. Attempting to acclimate to civilian life with the additional, horrifying problem of having woken up to a completely different society, culture, economy, and technological landscape, well… Steve didn’t even like to think about that.

His only option had been S.H.I.E.L.D. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t looked too hard into the things and people in it that he disagreed with. Perhaps he had been afraid that if he looked too hard and saw something he didn’t want to see—like the Hydra weapons stashed brashly on the helicarrier—he would be left with _nothing_.

The Avengers had slowly become another option for him. They weren’t remotely close after the Battle of New York, though Tony had provided them all with the option of apartments in his monstrosity of a Tower if they ever wanted them. But Steve had never seriously entertained the notion of moving into the Tower until S.H.I.E.L.D. went down in flames and, with it, his entire new way of life. Starting over _yet again_ was unthinkable, so of course Steve had chosen to throw his lot in with the Avengers.

Yet again, he'd had no real choice.

He wonders how much of a disservice he did to the other Avengers, thinking of them as his only available option. Not a choice, but a necessity. Colleagues, rather than teammates. Housemates, rather than friends.

Sam was the only person he’d met in this century who he had actually _met_ like a normal person, rather than being placed on a team with him or working alongside him in some capacity. Perhaps it was telling then that, after Ultron, Steve had chosen to include Sam with the new Avengers lineup, as he realized that he was beginning to understand the concept of the Avengers as a real _team_ , even _his_ team: his chosen family, like the Commandos.

He had chosen them this time, instead of being thrown in with a rage monster knock-off of the super-soldier serum (who frankly gave Steve the creeps when he considered how that may very well have happened to _him_ ), a shady, emotionless spy, a narcissistic and borderline-lunatic civilian billionaire with several serious attitude problems, and a wisecracking sniper who spent most of their first mission brainwashed and actively trying to kill the rest of the team—not to mention the _alien_ who got off to a seriously rocky start with them all.

No, instead of that mishmash of superpowered people thrown together with no consideration given to team dynamics or acclimation, Steve was able to select his own team the second time around, as he had done with the Commandos.

This time he'd had a choice, and that made all the difference to their functionality as a real team.

He’d selected his right-hand redhead, his new best friend, the new charge brought under his wing, the android vouched for by some sort of mystical worthiness assessment Steve didn’t really see fit to question as a mere mortal, and decaf-Iron Man who actually listened to orders and didn’t spend half his time trying to goad Steve into punching him, or whatever the hell Tony’s problem was.

This was _his_ team, his choice. One of the first real choices he’d made in his life in the future.

But it wasn’t Tony’s fault that he’d been forced in with Steve the first time around by Fury, which had done quite serious damage to their working relationship from the get-go. The more Steve got to know Fury the more he liked him—and the less he trusted him, which probably kicked off around the conference table after Coulson’s death. A slightly tipsy Maria Hill had actually told Steve during one of their parties that Fury had picked up those trading cards from Coulson’s locker which, by that point, was disappointing to hear but not terribly surprising.

Fury was a spy and, like all spies, he excelled at manipulation. The longer Steve spent under his purview, the more alert and suspicious he became of being manipulated—he wouldn’t be surprised if that was part of the reason he was so adamantly leery of the Accords.

Yet as far as shameless manipulation went, Fury hadn’t been terribly subtle on the helicarrier with Steve and Tony. Even though he hadn’t known the blood on the cards was part of the charade, just the fact that Fury pulled them out at all indicated he was going for a good old-fashioned guilt trip, as if Steve had never seen this method before.

No, both Steve and Tony had known that they were being played, and Tony had finally tired of it when Fury got around to laying it on far too thick with the late Coulson’s desire for the Avengers to work together. Steve wasn’t surprised that Tony bolted at that point, only a little distantly jealous that Tony got to run away when Steve’s military training and respect for his C.O.—such as Fury was—didn’t allow him to call the man on his heavy-handed attempts to _shame_ them into fighting to protect New York.

As if they wouldn’t do their best to save the world simply because… what else could they do? Sit around and shrug at each other and hope it worked out for the best?

That was why Steve followed Tony into the belly of the aircraft, sensing for the first time something vaguely resembling a kindred spirit in the other man. Tony didn’t like to be controlled either, apparently whether it was being outright hired by S.H.I.E.L.D. or simply goaded into some course of action by Fury. They both resented that Fury seemed to feel the need to coax them into doing the right thing.

(Of course, with Fury, the slippery bastard, it was entirely possible, now that Steve thought about it, that he wasn’t trying to manipulate them into acting so much as he was trying to manipulate them into seeing eye-to-eye—into _bonding_ , which was so underhanded and frustrating that Steve was yet again breathlessly glad he wasn’t working for the man anymore.)

But Steve had gone after Tony and prodded at him until he saw some real emotion, which was oddly relieving. A sign that Tony really was human under all the charm and bullshit. They’d managed to work together to fix the damaged engine, after all, and Tony had been unexpectedly not-an-asshole about Steve’s technological backwardness.

And then, as soon as Steve let Tony know that he wasn’t blindly going along with Fury either, he could almost see Tony’s shell thinning, letting Steve in just the tiniest bit to his thought process, agreeing silently to work with him as a team.

Inviting Steve into his lightning fast, brilliant mind.

That was the first and—unfortunately—one of the only times Tony actually bothered to share his thoughts with Steve.

Steve wondered suddenly if there wasn’t a correlation. If perhaps the reason Tony hadn’t shared any of his subsequent plans or ideas with Steve was because, for whatever reason, he’d determined that Steve was no longer on his _side_. That Steve had some agenda other than strengthening the team and protecting the people they had sworn to defend.

Hell, was it possible Steve and Tony had been divided into camps the entire time they knew each other? Steve refusing to side with Tony on anything and Tony clearly noticing it and pulling further and further back from Steve until… _this_?

The further Steve thought back through his relationship with Tony over the past few years, the more obvious it became. Tony let Steve in so they could defeat Loki and then Steve, for his own reasons, had left the Avengers for S.H.I.E.L.D. Steve had wondered why Tony didn’t call on any of the Avengers for backup when he was being attacked by the Mandarin, and now he realized that maybe that was for the same reason Steve hadn’t called any of the other Avengers for help taking down S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra. They weren’t a team. Steve was still hung up on the fact that they’d all been thrown together and expected to work without any preparation or teambuilding, and Tony sensed that Steve wanted nothing to do with him or the Avengers, and went along with it.

It only got worse and worse until Ross apparently confronted Tony with the nascent Accords and Tony had become so convinced that Steve wouldn’t help him, even where the Avengers were concerned, that he decided to deal with it all on his own.

And Steve… he had known that Ross was visiting the Compound, knew that Tony was meeting with the man. Thaddeus Ross, the disgusting bully and shame to the armed forces, who had turned Bruce into a fugitive for years, caused him untold amounts of suffering and loneliness. And Tony was _working with him_. Steve had even brought it up to Tony once, strongly implying that he was a traitor to the team for working alongside the vile Secretary of State—possibly the worst thing he could have done, he realized now when it was far too late for such insight—and Tony had retorted caustically that their discussions were need-to-know.

Well, Steve had really _needed to know_ long before Ross set the Accords down on the conference table and gave them three days to consider the loss of their freedom.

But then, Steve had never really been involved in the administration of the team. That was Tony’s job, even after he stepped back a little after the disaster in Sokovia. That was one thing Steve knew Tony could actually do to help—glad-hand, negotiate, work behind the scenes rather than doing any of the actual work of the team.

In which case, Tony had been damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. Steve let him handle everything until he suddenly wanted a say, then turned on Tony for trying to do the job he’d been given. And how convinced Tony must have been that Steve would be unable to be of any use, for him to not even mention the Accords in passing. They couldn’t have been created and become threatening so quickly that Tony wouldn’t have had time to discuss them with Steve, which only left the possibilities that he didn’t think Steve needed to know, or that he didn’t trust Steve with that information.

Either option was devastating.

Beside Steve on the leather sofa, Clint hung up for the eighth and final time that day without an answer, and stared off into space. He gathered himself eventually, dragging the tablet he’d been given over to check for any communications from Nat. Steve could only assume he’d come up empty-handed when he tossed the little device back down onto the sofa and leaned forward to put his head on his knees.

Normally, Steve would have at least tried to offer some physical comfort—a hand on Clint’s back, or even just his shoulder. But his relationship with Clint these days was strained at best and hostile at worst, so he thought better of it.

“She was finally beginning to let herself get comfortable,” Clint said into his knees.

Steve frowned. “… Laura?”

Clint turned to the side enough to give him a withering look. “Nat. She was finally settling into the team, finally beginning to accept that she could trust us, trust the Compound, let herself find comfort there. And _now_ , she’s out there on her own again, running again. She won’t even ask me for help because what the fuck can I do to help her?”

After a moment, Clint snapped upright, then stood up and turned to loom over Steve. “I want to blame you so fucking hard, but you’re just as much of an idiot as me.”

“We opposed the Accords for a good reason, Clint,” Steve countered, trying to stay calm.

“Oh yeah, a great reason. It’s a real comfort to know that I threw my entire life in the garbage for a _good goddamn reason_ ,” Clint snapped, taking a few steps back away from Steve. “And what do you know about it anyway? You have _nothing_. What did _you_ leave behind, Cap? I left my entire life, my wife, my kids, my cushy retirement, my home, my country, and you left… what? What did you sacrifice for this, Steve? You got what _you_ wanted! You must be real fuckin’ pleased that you get Barnes _and_ you didn’t have to sign the Accords—congratulations, Cap!” Clint practically shouted, throwing his arms wide. “You win!”

“I didn’t force you to fight with me,” Steve said coldly, beating back a great wave of hurt. “You made your own call.”

“Oh, so that’s how you’re sleeping at night,” Clint sneered. “It’s my fault for not realizing that you would throw yourself into some stupid, fucking _pointless_ ideological fight because you had nothing to lose and you’re just too _pure_ and fucking _stubborn_ to consider what that fight might cost the rest of us! I guess it’s easy to fight for what you believe in when you have nothing else on the line.”

Clint froze. “Or no: even better. You got to kill two birds with one stone. You got to fight for your shining, naïve principles _and_ get us all to help you fight for Barnes, all in one offensive!” He slapped his own forehead, far too hard for it to be a joke. “I’m such an _idiot_! I thought I was following my friend Steve into a battle against a corrupt and over-powerful government stooge, but it turns out I was following _Captain America_ into the _jaws of death_.

“I mean, Tony? Fucking _Tony_? How you managed to end up on opposite sides with a man who would probably give you his _lungs_ if you needed them is beyond me. How did I not realize how damned wrong you must have been for Tony to willingly hurt you trying to get you to stop?” He shook his head, falling back another step and then collapsing diagonally to Steve on the corner couch. “We ended up in a civil war. But you wanted to start a war with the whole world. Over Barnes. You… you’re not the man I thought you were. I don’t know who you are.”

Steve considered continuing this useless argument for a few moments, but eventually decided it wasn’t fair to Clint, who was obviously compromised. He stood up instead, and went to his room, locking the door and walking out onto the balcony.

The balcony of his rooms was interior, looking over a courtyard in the middle of the palace. There was a garden down there, elegantly arranged and utterly bursting with color. It was outstandingly green and beautiful, and it did a little to lift Steve’s mood.

He wasn’t ashamed that he fought for Bucky. Bucky deserved none of the nightmares that had been his life over the past seventy years, and it was all Steve could do to try to spare him just a little bit more pain and hunting. He could never regret that, even if there was some selfishness to the motivation: that he wanted his friend back desperately and yes, he was willing to fight tooth and nail for the chance.

But more than that, Clint had been a little bit right. But not in the way he’d meant it. Steve had nothing to fight for these days except nebulous goals like saving the world, protecting people, America. He had nothing close to him that he really cared about losing, nothing that he really, personally fought to defend and protect.

Until Bucky came back.

It hadn’t hit him until several days after seeing Bucky’s face behind the Winter Soldier’s mask, but when it did he felt like air was rushing back into his life. Like he was taking his first cool, fresh breaths since Bucky fell out of his grasp in 1945. He hadn’t noticed the oxygen being sucked from his life until it came back, and it became frighteningly obvious how barren his existence had become.

Bucky gave him a purpose, finally something to fight for. And if that meant fighting his team, fighting his government, fighting the whole world, then yes—he was going to do that. Because if they wanted to harm Bucky then they were categorically, unmistakably _wrong_ , and they would have to go over Steve’s lifeless corpse to lay a hand on James Buchanan Barnes.

This encompassing drive carried Steve through years of searching for Bucky, allowing himself to gather a team around him that would be able to help when the time came, knowing that he might not be able to protect Bucky all on his own.

Everything else vanished into a black hole where his friend was concerned, which hadn’t bothered Steve at all until Rumlow used it as a weakness. Until he exploited Steve’s _need_ for Bucky to almost blow them both to kingdom come.

But it all came to a head in Siberia.

Steve hadn’t been able to watch the video. The brief glimpse of it was enough. He already knew how it ended.

And the sight of Tony watching it was torture as it was. Steve looked at the other man’s face as it contorted, silently begging Tony _please don’t make me choose between you and him, please don’t make me choose_ …

He never wanted to hurt Tony. And nothing short of Tony attacking Bucky would have made him physically assault his teammate with destructive intent.

Zemo knew that. And Zemo used that, like Rumlow had used it.

Steve wondered—looking up at the deep blue Wakandan sky and smelling its sweet, unpolluted air—how much Zemo had figured out. Had he thought that it would be enough for Steve to break, just knowing that Tony attacked him first? Did he know that the only emotion that would overpower Steve’s feelings for Tony was his love for Bucky? Did he go through all the trouble to get the former Winter Soldier involved because that was the only loyalty that would ever make Steve turn on Tony?

Because Tony’s part was simple—the Winter Soldier killed his parents. That would be enough.

But not for Steve. 

Tony was the reason for Steve’s first real smile since he woke up from the ice. His blasé jokes in the face of his narrow escape from death, his overwhelming bravery. Lying there on the bridge in his damaged armor, cracking wise and staring up at all of them in disbelieving shock, he had effortlessly pulled a helpless grin from Steve.

Over the years, Steve got very good at avoiding it. Avoiding that brave, stupid, clever man as much as he could. He convinced himself that it was not what he wanted—Tony was bad news, arrogant and crass, obsessed with seeking attention of any kind, selfish and brash and flippant.

And Steve tried very hard to immerse himself in these things so he wouldn’t notice all the ways in which they simply weren’t true.

That was part of the problem with Bucky’s return unthawing the rest of Steve’s heart. He could no longer pretend that he didn’t want a home, or a family, or to be loved and to love others in return. He was forced to admit that he wanted and needed friends, that he wanted and needed a team to work with. He was forced to admit that he had still been holding onto an outdated, impossible dream of living his life out with Peggy, because she was still alive—despite the fact that she didn’t want him like that anymore, and besides, that they would never be able to have the same future there once existed as a promise between them when they were young and in love.

Peggy had lived that life already, a long life without him, and Steve was still young and in love with a woman that simply no longer existed. As much as Peggy was the same person at heart, it was equally true that she was no longer the woman he had loved, as she had grown and matured, moved on and developed while he was still stuck in the past.

But even as Steve began to accept his new reality piece by piece, Tony was pulling further away from him by the day.

Steve had thought there was no way to forgive Tony for creating Ultron and all the lives he destroyed by proxy. But despite the whole incident demonstrating how dangerous secrets could be, he bottled up the terrible knowledge Zola had given him, believing that there was no reason to give Tony that information, as the man still mourned the loss of his parents as a tragic accident. How could Steve reopen that wound by telling him that it had been no accident?

Tony would never find peace, vengeance, or justice, because Steve himself _wouldn’t let him_. Steve would never let him hurt Bucky, and even if, by some miracle, Tony hadn’t blamed Bucky for the actions of the Winter Soldier, then Tony would be left in limbo forever, with two dead parents and nobody responsible.

Steve convinced himself it was a kindness not to tell Tony. He’d planned to tell him, he truly had—right up until he found out that the Winter Soldier was Bucky. Once he knew that, it became clear that there was nothing to gain and everything to lose by sharing that information.

And with all of this trapped in his head, Steve was finally able to start accepting that he had no chance with Tony, even if he wasn’t with Pepper, and even if Steve would ever, one day, be whole enough to try anything with him. Because of this terrible secret Steve had to keep, he could never have a prayer for anything more than a friendship with Tony, and he just had to accept that.

He hadn’t ever seriously considered that Tony might find out the truth about his parents’ deaths from another party.

After twenty-five years, Steve thought that secret had to be well and truly buried along with Arnim Zola.

He felt something like dizziness sweep through him when he realized what video was playing in the mountain bunker. His secret collapsing in on itself like the old S.S.R. hideout had collapsed on him and Nat.

Tony’s horrified face.

The impending sense of his world ending yet again.

He’d only just started really immersing himself in his new life, and it was crumbling in front of his eyes.

He tried to hold on to it with desperation, but Tony had somehow known he was lying.

There was nothing Steve could do. The secret was out. If he had had no serious chance with Tony before, the man had to actively hate him now.

Steve found himself thinking about those two pens. A matched set, and Tony was far too clever and deliberate to choose an olive branch with no hidden meanings. Without at least a couple of layers of metaphor to dig through.

It wasn’t complicated, but still Steve had thrown it in Tony’s face. Tony told Steve with that unassuming but world-changing set of pens that he was on his side, that they were a team, a pair. And in return, Steve told him in no uncertain terms that no—they were not, maybe had never been that matched set, but sure as hell weren’t now. 

So the first layer was the pens themselves, here to sign another important agreement, and the second was the team Tony hoped Steve was still willing to be a part of. The third layer was the Lend-Lease agreement itself—Roosevelt providing the warring Allies with as much aid as his citizens and government would let him, when they needed it badly, or else ran the risk of losing the war with the Nazis. Steve had read up on the agreement once more, in case his memory had been damaged by bias, the propaganda of the time bellowing that President Roosevelt had just signed away any hope America had of remaining out of the war in early 1941.

But, to his shame, he had remembered it correctly—simply refused to listen.

 _I am your friend_ , Tony said with those two unassuming ink pens. _I can’t fight alongside you because my hands are tied by internal politics, but I support you, I am here for you, and I will give you anything and everything you need to win this fight. All you need to do is sign this agreement, and I will promise you everything with no expectation of you holding up your end of the bargain. Let me help._

It was a mistake to turn Tony away at that point, before things truly went all to hell. But he knew that, given the choice, he would probably have done the same thing again. Only with his current knowledge of how it would all play out would he have changed his mind—but going down that road of second-guessing himself with hindsight would lead to nowhere but madness. Certainly nowhere productive.

Perhaps it only made sense that Tony had refused Steve’s own olive branch of the phone. And perhaps the letter he had written to go with it had done more harm for his cause than good. At the time of writing that letter, he had been content with the state of affairs, satisfied that he had done the right thing.

But then Bucky had gone into cryo, so that small victory was tainted.

And then his term confined to the Central Wakandan palace dragged on, and the helplessness of Steve’s new situation become slowly apparent, and the victory over the Accords was tainted with that too.

Still, Tony had offered Steve multiple overtures during their fight. Trying to keep Ross off their backs in Berlin, and keep them either from being prosecuted or thrown in prison by making promises he clearly had no intentions of keeping. Making sure Bucky would be cared for rather than imprisoned either by the U.S. or Wakanda—and as much as Steve disagreed with the idea of Bucky being remanded to a madhouse, because Bucky was _innocent_ , dammit, he at least had to acknowledge that from Tony’s perspective that was a generous concession. And that must have been extremely difficult to wrangle, especially considering what Bucky had just been framed for. Then Tony broke the Accords to come to Siberia… to _help_ , he honestly came to help Steve…

Steve could afford to send out more of his own overtures. Tony may have destroyed the phone, but Steve had at least a little more distance to cover before breaking even with Tony.

He had the appointment Sam had cajoled him into with a therapist tomorrow. Perhaps he would ask them for advice.

He just had to show Tony that they were on the same side now, that it was safe to let him back in. Tony was many terrible things, but adept at holding a useless grudge was not one of them.

Steve just had to keep trying.


	5. Informational influence: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can’t control people, kid,” Tony said wryly. “Believe me, I’ve tried harder than you can imagine.”
> 
> Peter stayed silent for a minute, then tipped his cheek onto his knee and peered at Tony with his head cocked like a little bird. “So what do you do with them?”
> 
> “You trust them,” Tony said easily, pushing all the hurt and pain the simple statement caused into some pit deep in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter has taken so long to get posted partly because I just started university, and partly because it’s now over 15,000 words long and there’s another monster scene to go. So I’ve decided to split it into two parts, for everyone’s sakes.

 

_**Informational influence (I)** : Group effects that arise when one individual—desiring to be correct and right and to understand how best to act in a given situation—turns to another person for insight: one whom they believe is more knowledgeable than themselves, or has more accurate information._

 

•

 

“Your Majesty!”

T’Challa heard her calling from across the runway, and he shamefully—albeit very briefly—entertained the idea of simply striding on as though he hadn’t.

“Your Majesty!”

But that was not the kingly thing to do, nor was it in anyone’s best interests for him to simply ignore her, so he drew to a stop and turned to wait in a sort of parade rest. He remained silent until her high-heeled half-run brought her within conversational distance.

“Ambassador Miller,” he greeted.

“Your Majesty,” she said again, dipping in a slight bow before smoothing down her pantsuit. “Are you leaving?”

He hoped the question was rhetorical, since he was clearly on his way to the royal jet awaiting him not fifty feet away, but he politely inclined his head. “I am scheduled to visit the United States,” he informed her needlessly, since… “As it is indicated on my public calendar.”

“Might we chat before you take off?” she asked a little desperately, and he took some pity on her.

“You may accompany me to the jet, but I must take off on schedule.”

“Of course,” she agreed quickly, falling into step with him and casting a somewhat nervous look at the two Dora Milaje trailing them as they walked.

“What do you wish to talk about?” he asked wryly.

She shot him an obligingly incredulous look. “I wish to talk about the U.S. criminals you are sheltering in your country.”

That was bold. If her tone hadn’t been so self-satisfied, he would have admired her forthrightness. “Did you have anything more specific in mind, Ambassador?”

“Well…” She was clearly thrown; as if she had thought the mere mention of the topic would have him bowing to her every whim. “The United States government would like to informally petition you to release them back into our custody.”

“And, why does your government think I would do such a thing?” he asked airily, marching determinedly towards his waiting jet.

She spluttered just a little. “Although we don’t believe that you had any part in the breakout from the Raft—of course—we… the United States does not wish to be forced into taking more proactive measures where the fugitives are concerned.”

He stopped, turning to look at the tall blonde woman slightly over his shoulder. “Wakanda has no extradition agreement with your country, Ambassador,” he reminded her stonily. “Nor have we signed any _aut dedere aut judicare_ treaties with the U.N. that I know of. On what grounds, may I ask, do you base this demand?”

She seemed cowed for just a moment before foolishly deciding to double down on her efforts. “If it comes to it, there is talk of sanctions and other such actions against your country, if you continue to refuse to surrender the criminals under your protection.”

T’Challa turned to look directly at her, his face a mask. But he let just a hint of a smile appear on his lips, then a touch of a chuckle creep into his voice. “Ambassador Miller, no nation on Earth is foolish enough to attempt a war against Wakanda, or send agents in to risk one. You could pose no sanctions that would affect us. You walk a fine line by threatening me. The people you speak of are asylum-seekers in my country, and you will not lay a hand on them until their applications have been duly processed.”

“They don’t remotely qualify as refugees! Your Majesty, you’re risking your nation’s entire future on these people,” she insisted. “Your father’s final act as king was to open up international avenues of diplomacy, and now your first act as king is to make sure he failed?”

“I would thank you,” he warned, staring narrowly at her. “To do your job as the official avenue of communication between my government and your own, and leave the rule of my country to me. Now, if you will excuse me, my plane is ready to depart.”

He gave a nod of his head just deep enough to not be actively disrespectful, then left her behind as he crossed the final distance to the boarding ramp and entered his jet.

As he and his staff settled in for the long flight to New York, T’Challa considered the ambassador’s words. As brash as she was, she was not wholly wrong. And yet—he had provided a haven for the rogue Avengers both out of a sense of moral duty, and of his duty as a citizen of the planet. The Captain’s refusal to cooperate with the Accords was unfortunate, but T’Challa had brought him to his country to get a proper assessment of the man’s character.

What he had found was that Captain Rogers was heavily compromised, and acting against the Accords not entirely on moral grounds, but also out of a sense of personal necessity.

T’Challa deeply regretted his role in the events surrounding James Barnes’s detainment, but it was now in the past and beyond change. The long-term effects of his actions were that he and his collaborators had collectively forced the Captain into what the man perceived to be a defenseless corner. Predictably, Rogers had lashed out. T’Challa did not believe the man should be punished for the rest of his life for a decision made while so compromised, nor was he even remotely willing to risk the torture potentially awaiting the Captain and his compatriots, were they to be returned to the talons of the United States government.

Nevertheless, their sojourn in Wakanda was only a temporary fix. He could not ignore the building international outcry much longer, and though his stipulation that the ex-Avengers remain under house arrest in the palace was undoubtedly a harsh one, it had accomplished his goal of ensuring no proof of the fugitives’ presence had made its way onto the desk of any other government official or—infinitely worse—the internet. The question then became how best to tackle the situation, and permit them all to safely leave Wakanda. T’Challa was not unaware that he was on thin ice, but if his country’s former stringent policy of isolationism had been good for anything, it was the creation of a political and legal island on which Rogers, Wilson, and the others he had chosen to take in could find true refuge without having to go on the run.

But T’Challa also had to contend with his citizens. People in muted outcry over the lives needlessly lost in Nigeria, the pro-Accords position of their late and beloved king—recently killed as collateral damage in yet _another_ war the Avengers fought purely for existing—and not to mention the gossamer ties his country was only just beginning to bind with the rest of the world.

And the spectacular legal mess the ex-Avengers had left in their wake did not make T’Challa’s job any easier.

He had to be seen to be taking action before the subdued outrage of his people grew too loud, before the international ramifications grew too enormous to surmount, and before he lost the momentum of his somewhat intuitive decision to aid the Avengers—rather than remaining with his head buried in the sand, while the world’s best line of defense against escalating attacks of both the terrestrial and extraterrestrial variety lay in shards. It was therefore imperative that he call in all the help he could muster.

And he could think of only one other person whose connection to the situation was as multidirectional as—but also as similar to—his own as was probably possible. Tony Stark, after all, appeared to view the Accords at least as a necessary evil, or possibly even an inevitability. He had thrown himself even further into them than T’Challa had done, and had suffered for his decision almost the most out of all concerned. If nothing else, T’Challa owed it to his father’s memory to try to continue on with his final work—a work which would not have had a prayer of succeeding without the support of one Tony Stark: Avengers liaison, sponsor, and now… he did not know what Stark was, now.

T’Challa had been raised since he was a child to mistrust the media (the foreign media exponentially more than the domestic), and furthermore had not been raised enmeshed in the Western culture of both glorifying and demonizing the military-industrial complex. His opinion of Tony Stark had always been that he was an excellent engineer and the perfect product of U.S. capitalism—the epitome of wealth, fame, attractiveness, indispensability, and all of it fully sanctioned and even applauded by his government.

He was patriotic to a questionable regime, but T’Challa could no more fault him for that than fault himself for his isolationist and monarchic leanings.

However, when Stark returned from Afghanistan and instigated a worldwide paradigm shift towards the metahuman, T’Challa—who had been a metahuman for many years at that point, thanks to the Heart-Shaped Herb—was far less impressed than the rest of the world with the Iron Man armor, as beautiful and poetic a feat of engineering as it was, and far more impressed with the bravery and self-possession Stark suddenly showed for probably the first time in his life. He watched from afar and with dawning respect as Stark successively told his business partner, his board of directors, his state government, and finally his federal government that he was through partaking in their obsession with military might at the cost of humanity and common sense, and allowing himself to serve in a role that he found morally repugnant.

That was also one of the first times T’Challa had felt any sort of optimism about his father’s grand ideas to begin reaching out to the rest of the world, and break down Wakanda’s longstanding walls.

Because if Tony Stark: Champion of Militaristic Capitalism, the so-called “Merchant of Death,” could accomplish such an about-face, there had to be hope for his entire culture.

T’Challa then had to watch for years as Tony Stark was in turn berated and celebrated by his society, his government, his teammates, his peers, and just about everyone who knew his name for never living up to their polarized expectations. He sat by, observing as Tony Stark weathered that storm like a lightning rod, taking and absorbing all the damage so that others might tread easier in his footsteps.

But T’Challa was done waiting in the wings, now—waiting for other men to create a better world before he was willing to engage with it.

When the Accords finally came forward for signing, most of the world had been surprised that Tony Stark had not only signed but supported them wholeheartedly. T’Challa had not been so surprised. Unlike most of the other Avengers, Stark had real, applicable experience with accountability and its role in authority, and since his reveal as Iron Man he had been fighting in the arduous battle for accountability against public and private sentiment—first in his company’s business practices and then, as far as possible, with the Avengers team.

He had publicly and repeatedly expressed his opinion that a lack of oversight had led to his own blindness and his role in so many terrible deaths, as well as the unethical and black market dealings of many of his close subordinates (and competitors).

So no, T’Challa was not remotely surprised—especially after the catastrophic failure that was the robot Ultron and Sokovia—that Stark latched on to the idea of oversight, because he had already definitively done so once, and stuck his neck out over and over again for that belief.

On a team that consisted of Captain Rogers (who by his own admission had only ever been under the loosest interpretation of military authority), Agent Romanoff (who seemed to recognize no authority but her own), Agent Barton (formerly a gun-for-hire and later trained under the extremely dubious authority of S.H.I.E.L.D.), Sam Wilson (who also admitted that he had never been in a traditional position of command authority), Wanda Maximoff (a dangerous wildcard who seemed to have imprinted like a duckling upon Captain Rogers and Agent Barton), and the Vision (whom T’Challa was at a loss to describe), Tony Stark was without a doubt the only Avenger among them with tangible experience in positions of genuine authority and responsibility.

Colonel Rhodes came a close second, but even he would be able to step away from both his military and Avengers positions, and another person would be able to fill his role with little technical difficulty. Captain Rogers could have—and had, in fact—simply walked away from his entire life without any discernible effects beyond public shock that _Captain America_ would do such a thing. Wilson, Romanoff, Maximoff, and even Barton to an extent, all of them could drop their entire lives and leave no irreparable holes in society.

But Tony Stark… he was a priceless facet of American life and culture. Infamous, irreplaceable, inextricable from every industry from gossip rags to consumer electronics to clean energy and sustainable infrastructure. Technically, he was not his entire company, but as he was the brains behind its larger schemes, both culturally and metaphorically… he absolutely _was_ his company. Were Tony Stark to disappear suddenly in a series of fiery explosions and legal horrors, as Captain Rogers had done, his company had but a slim chance of surviving the fallout. It might eventually have recovered to an extent, but it would never have been quite the same again. And if the tech and outreach giant Stark Industries collapsed, it would certainly have an effect on the country’s stock market, and the entire U.S. economy would feel it—possibly even the global economy, considering its reach, and not to mention the repercussions concerning the Avengers. Stark’s capture and pursuant actions as Iron Man in 2008, or at least the resulting instabilities of his company, were widely understood as one of the many contributing factors to the Great Recession that struck that year in the Western world, and it would not be unreasonable to assume that if Tony Stark disappeared again under traitorous circumstances, there would be a similar effect.

Therefore, Tony Stark was not really ever in any position to refuse signing the U.N. Accords.

Not only did the wellbeing of his tens of thousands of employees hang in the balance of his continuing good relationship with the federal and international governments, but—as an extreme worst case scenario—his refusal to sign could have led to another worldwide economic meltdown. One of T’Challa’s greatest arguments against his father’s desire to join the new globalized society was that it would tie the strong Wakandan economy to the flighty and unstable economies of the rest of the world. Having escaped both the Great Depression and the Great Recession pretty much unscathed, T’Challa had not been eager to unite their fates in such a way.

Yet Stark was making the most of the hand he had been dealt at birth, eventually and unreservedly accepting responsibility and accountability as their worth became clear to him, and T’Challa had respect for that. He had long-since realized that most people retained nothing more than a shallow fiction of Tony Stark, whether it was the “Merchant of Death” or the “Gung-Ho Playboy” or some variation of the two. Few people ever seemed willing or able to consider his personal motivations.

Well, T’Challa was finished considering Stark’s personal motivations, and he was on his way to judge the truth of the matter.

“Sir,” Ayo said from a sofa across the plane, phone in hand. “The judge has dismissed the case. He should be home when we arrive.”

He nodded at her in thanks. After the Captain had broken his compatriots out of the prison known as the Raft—decidedly against T’Challa’s advice—the Americans had sought wildly for someone to blame for the incident. Naturally, at this point, it fell upon Stark to bear the brunt of accusation once more for the Avengers. T’Challa was not entirely certain how it came to be that this one man became at once the figurehead and eternal scapegoat of the organization, even when he had increasingly little to do with their operations, but it was not yet his business.

There had even been talk of Stark facing charges of criminal negligence for his funding of the Avengers, but no judge would accept a case that was so impossible to prove. Not least because Tony Stark had been one of the loudest international voices for transparency and accountability in business ventures since he was tried in 2009 for Stark Industries’s decades of negligence.

T’Challa wondered passingly if any member of the public in fact remembered that Stark had been cleared of all culpability in that instance as well, with all the evidence and blame laid squarely upon the late Obadiah Stane. After Stane’s death in a suspiciously timely plane crash, his name had been all but forgotten as Stark surged ahead without the man who had been in change of Stark Industries’s major operations for the decades since Howard Stark had passed away. There had been some spotty speculation about the truth of Stane’s death, but nothing serious or concrete. With all that had happened recently, T’Challa found himself thinking absently yet again about the truth of the matter.

The plane arrived several hours later at the Avengers Compound in upstate New York, tucking neatly into their large sunken hangar. There were three vast bays along one of the walls, two of which contained the remainder of the Avengers’ quinjets—the last was currently sequestered beneath T’Challa’s palace. He and his two bodyguards were greeted by a young woman who worked under the Compound management. Her flustered demeanor and the way in which she stumbled charmingly over certain facts given to them during their tour of the facility—a casually opportunistic one on the way from the hangar to the central building—suggested that she was an intern or trainee of some kind.

Tony Stark awaited them in the lobby of the main building, hands in his pockets and a rather grim expression on his face, though he attempted to cover it with a friendly façade as he greeted their guide and sent her skittering back to her post.

“Greetings, Your Pantherness,” he called out, which made T’Challa’s lips twitch against his will. “I’d ask if you had a good flight, but looking at that stunning specimen of an aircraft you’ve parked in my basement, I guess that’s a given.”

“Mr. Stark,” T’Challa said evenly, as he and his escorts drew finally level with the man. “We have much to discuss.”

“Well,” Stark said musingly, giving T’Challa a look up and down. “Nat mentioned you weren’t all that into politics.”

“I care for resolution,” he corrected. “Without all the posturing that seems to go with it.”

Stark gave him an even, assessing stare. A moment later something changed abruptly in the air between them, as quick as a flicked switch, and T’Challa felt as though he had managed to pass a sort of unspoken diagnostic Stark was running on him. The other man nodded thoughtfully, then removed his hands from his pockets and beckoned for T’Challa and the Dora Milaje to follow him.

“You have had a busy day,” T’Challa noted pointedly as they started to walk side-by-side down the cold, gray corridor.

Stark made an indecipherable motion with his arms. “You know how it is.”

“Not yet, but,” T’Challa glanced askance at his companion. “I suspect I soon will.”

They held eye contact for a short moment, just long enough to ensure they both understood the situation. Stark knew that the Captain and the others were in Wakanda, did not intend to speak of it, and T’Challa knew both of these things with certainty. He gave a curt nod. That certainly made things easier.

Nothing more was said until they entered a smaller room walled with glass, which T’Challa understood to be Stark’s office though there was no nameplate or other signage. He indicated for the two women with them to remain outside, at which Aneka split off to explore the building while Ayo remained posted outside the door. Stark hit a short series of commands on a panel upon the desk’s sleek surface, which darkened the glass walls almost to opacity and presumably activated soundproofing of various sorts.

T’Challa took the indicated seat next to the desk, while Stark sat in the larger rolling chair within its vee. He noted that the desk was shaped and situated so that Stark was not sitting directly opposite his meeting partners unless they took the third most accessible chair in the room, and therefore deliberately chose to be in opposition to him.

It was a setup favoring equanimity and negotiation over power and confrontation, and T’Challa’s approval deepened.

“No recording, no cameras, et cetera, you know the drill,” Stark said in a rush.

Now that they were seated, T’Challa noted that there was a certain frantic undercurrent behind Stark’s cool. There in the way he sat down angled slightly away from T’Challa, the way his eyes never remained fixed on him for more than a moment. He had disabled any security and yet it was clearly not an entirely freely-made choice.

“Do I concern you, Mr. Stark?”

He was given an incredulous eyebrow for his trouble, which worked well enough. “Honestly, I’m not sure how to react to you dropping in like this. I’ve never actually met the ‘other woman’ before.”

T’Challa tilted his head down questioningly. “That is not how I see the situation.”

Stark shrugged. “I don’t know, seems pretty standard. You got the kids: I got the house.”

He smiled again, despite himself. “I don’t know that it is so clean-cut. Where is Ms. Romanoff?”

A miscalculation. Stark’s gentled face grew a little harder at the name, and T’Challa was left to question what other incidents he may have missed upon leaving to supervise the prison transfers from Germany.

“Took off. Heard you busted her to Ross. Probably gone back to whatever new version of S.H.I.E.L.D. Fury has been working on all these years.”

His anger flared for a moment. “I was led to believe Ms. Romanoff was in favor of the Accords.”

“She signed them, sure,” Stark said dismissively, and there was an unresolved hurt in his words. “But she didn’t agree with them, per se.”

“Not enough to remain and bear the consequences of breaking them,” T’Challa said, his own voice surprising him with its coldness.

So, Romanoff had sabotaged his efforts to detain the Captain and Barnes by physically assaulting him with little compunction, and rather than submitting to the consequences of violating her signature on the Accords, she had abandoned Stark to Ross. Or she had lied right to T’Challa’s face at the outset of all this and had never supported the Accords at all—at least not any further than the point at which they became an inconvenience to her. A foolish decision, on her part. He hoped she was as adept at living below the radar as her reputation would suggest, since he would be hard-pressed at this point to justify offering her shelter in his country.

A betrayal such as this—not only of himself, but of her abandoned teammate—was not so easily forgotten.

“They didn’t want babysitters in the first place,” Stark said after a moment, as if it may not have been an obvious point. “And nobody wants to get a time-out.”

“And yet I notice you have remained here,” T’Challa stated baldly. “I was also led to believe that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been dismantled years ago, if recently returned.”

Stark all but snorted at him. “‘Cut off one head’… there’s a reason nobody noticed Hydra in S.H.I.E.L.D.—well, there are probably several, but. They were always all about the secrets, experimenting without considering the consequences. Hey—that’s what started this whole Avengers thing in the first place. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were behind this Inhuman outbreak, too. But you either work inside the law or outside it. There’s no such thing as _sort-of_ illegal, and I don’t think anyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. cared much either way. They only agreed to go along with the Accords because the Inhumans can’t be kept a secret anymore. Whatever Fury cooked up to actually deal with the Inhumans was hiding behind the A.T.C.U., I’m sure, but believe me—you can’t get rid of S.H.I.E.L.D. that easily.”

T’Challa was more than a little disconcerted by that information. He had never met Nicholas Fury, nor any other agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. besides Romanoff and Barton, and even those brief interactions were quite sufficient to support Stark’s words. Barton had _come out of retirement_ to fight the concept of oversight, and Romanoff had said all the correct things and signed everything she needed to in order to remain a free agent, but turned quite soundly on her word as soon as the Accords inconvenienced her. And while Stark had done the same in flying to Siberia, here he was: under attack yet again but standing firm and accepting the consequences of his decisions.

“Loyalty,” T’Challa said into the contemplative silence. “Is a virtue too important to be lavished on individual personalities.”

Stark blinked at him for a moment before saying, incongruously: “Friday?”

A voice came suddenly from the desk, which attracted every scrap of T’Challa’s attention in brief alarm.

“ _That Hideous Strength_ by C.S. Lewis, 1945,” a female voice recited.

“Thanks, Fry,” Stark said warmly.

T’Challa recovered himself and gave Stark a wry look. “You could have simply asked, Mr. Stark.”

“Maybe I wanted to prove that I know everything—and can find out everything I don’t know via my minions,” Stark said with a little grin.

“Thanks, Boss,” the voice said archly. “I’m glad to hear you prefer me to Siri.”

“A computer program,” T’Challa surmised, having heard the ex-Avengers discuss such a thing from time to time.

“An A.I.—FRIDAY. FRY, bud, say hi to the nice king.”

“Good afternoon, King T’Challa,” the voice—FRIDAY—greeted in an amiable Irish brogue.

“Good afternoon, FRIDAY,” he returned, intrigued. Unfortunately, now was not the correct time for a discussion of Stark’s programming prowess (though T’Challa made a mental note to return to the subject at a later date). He settled his arms on the armrests of his chair, watching while Stark mimicked him affably. “I have heard much on the subject of the Sokovia Accords, Stark, since they were only in their infancy, but I have heard nothing of them from you. I wish to know why it is you chose to support them.”

A large grin swept across Stark’s face. “I’m a patriot, haven’t you heard? Who am I to say no to Uncle Sam?”

T’Challa was not amused, and made no efforts to hide it. “I have not invited our mutual acquaintances into my country in the belief that what they did was right, but in the belief that what they may still do is more important than the mistakes they have made. You are considered among the foremost futurists of our time—” Stark winced slightly at the term, and T’Challa did not fail to notice. “—so I believe you too are aware that the Avengers will likely be sorely needed in the near future.”

“Aside from some cryptic warnings from one Asgardian Chippendale,” Stark interrupted abruptly. “I don’t know anything.”

“I am not asking you to share your insights with me,” T’Challa continued. “Only—if you are willing—your plans.”

“My plans…” Stark said, musingly. “My plans my plans my plans. Does that make me the mouse and you the man? Cat-man? Or, both of us have had plans gone askew, I suppose. You wanted to kill your father’s murderer and instead you ended up with some—very messy, might I add—house guests. Good luck with your garbage disposal, by the way, if you even have something so primitive in Never Never Land.”

“I understand that you are reluctant to trust me,” T’Challa said into the brief pause. “I believed in the Accords because I feared the Avengers. Now I shelter those who confirmed my fears, and I am asking for the help of one of the few Avengers who did not disappoint me.”

Stark was clearly struggling with himself—his eyelids flickering even as his gaze remained fixed on a point over T’Challa’s head, and his fingers were tapping against the metal armrests of the chair. T’Challa waited, certain that Stark’s intelligence would win out over his mistrust.

“See, I didn’t do it to make you proud,” Stark finally let out, still not looking at T’Challa. “And I didn’t do it because it’s what The People wanted or—hell—what Thunderbolt Ross wanted. I did it because I’m a self-centered fuck-up who just doesn’t want to see the rest of my team make the same mistakes I did, not when there’s something I can do about it.” He finally shifted his eyes to meet T’Challa’s stare. “Nobody’s perfect, and the only objective safety from that is the law. Or a chain of command. Something. Someone to hold you accountable. Even in a democracy you can’t be held accountable to _everyone_ , and then you get S.H.I.E.L.D. and their… creepy… Men in Black thing and the fucking World Security Council where only five countries get any sort of say, and you meet Nick Fury once or twice breaking and entering your home, you start to appreciate things like legal recourse.”

“You do not strike me as a man too concerned with rules,” T’Challa tossed out contentiously.

Stark’s eyes flashed as though he knew exactly what T’Challa was up to. “Rules aren’t made to be broken: they’re made to be tested. I bend the rules to see if they break. The Avengers had no rules. They were unprecedented. You can’t bend a rule that doesn’t exist any more than you can test a theory that hasn’t been made. Did I like the Accords? No, Your Excellence, I did not. Did I plan to bend them…?”

“As you did upon flying to Siberia,” T’Challa caught on.

Stark stared at him, his dynamic face shifting with many emotions but none T’Challa could readily identify. “I knew I couldn’t do it alone. By the time… the Accords were already well underway and I had to factor them into the new Initiative, but I had time… and then I didn’t, and I realized that I was still alone even with my team all there. … I already mentioned the self-centered fuck-up thing, right?”

“One man cannot always make a difference,” T’Challa agreed. “But he can influence one. What I do not understand is why you did not share your work on the Accords with the other Avengers.”

He appeared to have pressed a button he should have perhaps avoided, as Stark’s open face guttered like a candle flame. “That would have been better, wouldn’t it?” Stark snapped. “I suppose Nat was right about me being a crappy team player from the start. They didn’t want me to fight with them after Sokovia, they barely wanted me to work with them. I had _one job_ and I guess I was too much of an arrogant dick to admit that I might have needed help with it.”

T’Challa held up his hand to hold off any more. They sat in silence for a while, with T’Challa studying Stark as the other man stared stubbornly out the window to the quite lovely landscape.

“You should have told them,” T’Challa began, silently indicating for Stark to let him say his piece. “That is the purpose of the team: many parts forming a cohesive whole. However, I think you know this already. And I also think that you were not the only Avenger who failed the team in this way.”

Stark turned abruptly to look at him, visibly surprised.

“Your lack of faith in them alone would not have produced this situation,” T’Challa finished, searching Stark’s face for clues and reactions.

For a moment, there was no reaction. Stark just stared at him, eyes marginally widened. Then he seemed to shake himself off. “Trust. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

T’Challa waited for a moment, then indicated for Stark to continue.

Which he did, with a sort of frustrated shrug. “Bruce was right from the get-go—we were a ticking time bomb from the moment Fury put us all on that helicarrier together, not a team,” he said stonily. “Clint didn’t trust us with his family, Bruce didn’t trust us to protect him, Wanda flat-out hated me from the start, Nat—who knows if she’s even capable of trusting anyone?—, I… didn’t trust any of them to make the right decisions, and Steve… I don’t know if Steve ever really trusted any of us with anything. Ever. Barnes, his past, himself.”

Stark took a deep breath. “In the… Zemo said that an empire destroyed from the inside will never be rebuilt. But if we—if we were never a team to begin with. There was nothing to destroy. The Avengers are supposed to fight the battles that no-one else can. That hasn’t changed. But we were also never under any laws: we all operated for our own reasons, with our own agendas, under our own oversight. And… look how that turned out. The law—legitimacy comes from the people’s consent. Our legitimacy as an agency comes from the leaders of the countries whose citizens we are trying to protect—but we have to fight for all humanity, not for a single government. That’s why I thought… I thought they would be happy to work with the U.N. I thought… I assumed. That it would be good enough.

“‘Cause that was where I failed with Ultron,” he continued, looking increasingly more forlorn. “That’s where I—we—can never fail again. I created Ultron to be armor for the whole world, without asking it, and Ultron figured out that given the choice, people might not agree to be protected. That was my… I was terrified of people making the wrong choices, so I never offered them those choices. I almost drove away everyone I cared for, everyone I wanted to protect. I did drive away Pepper, I don’t know how Rhodey can stand to look at me, Steve split and hasn’t… called, contacted me, except—”

He cut himself off, pursing his lips. T’Challa kept his silence.

Stark’s gaze had fallen to the floor, and now he lifted it to look out the window once more. “Most of all, I guess I expected that Steve would fight. The Accords. He won’t do anything if he feels like he hasn’t been given a choice, so I wanted to give him the choice, this time. I thought I was learning, I thought… well, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t think that Steve would ever just turn and run away in a blaze of fire and dead cops. I didn’t think it was possible for him to go that far off the reservation.” He smiled a rueful smile. “I thought that was my job.”

Struck by the—frankly, unexpected—honesty and doubt he was being faced with, T’Challa fell silent for a moment to allow himself time. He needed to decide how best to proceed with this meeting.

It was looking quite possible that Stark desired help as much as he himself did, and with the U.N. and other bodies demanding that the remaining Avengers publicly denounce Rogers and his followers—presumably in an effort to ensure that the entire Initiative wasn’t deemed a violent non-state agency along with them—he and Stark were running out of time to think. They both already knew that the Accords could be amended, tightened, adjusted, and that was perhaps the most obvious next course of action. 

Without a better option, T’Challa decided to stay on the same topic, since Stark was being so open.

“I will not provide shelter for Captain Rogers indefinitely,” he said plainly, searching the other man’s face.

Very little emotion filtered through, since Stark had apparently shored up his defenses once more in the moment of respite he’d been given. He quirked a dull grin at T’Challa, turning away from the window. “If you’re asking what I plan to do to help Steve once you kick him back out the door, I think you’re going to be disappointed.”

“You have no intention of helping Rogers,” T’Challa inferred.

Stark stared at him, a sad sort of humor in his eyes. “Steve’s a big boy. He can take care of himself perfectly well, as he made very clear. If he doesn’t want my help, that’s fine by me.”

“No, it is not,” T’Challa noted bluntly.

He earned himself an even larger, sadder smile. “I can’t spend all my time running after people who don’t want my help. What’s the point? There’s plenty of others out there worse off than Captain America.”

T’Challa nodded slowly, as if he were digesting this. But something about that position niggled at his mind, demanding that he ask. “Yet, before you agreed that Captain Rogers and the others could prove useful should we find ourselves in need of them.”

Stark snorted. “Believe me: Rogers made it pretty clear that he’ll be available if something comes up. In the meantime…” He trailed off entirely, whether holding back the end of that thought or uncertain himself of what it should be. “If the world is ending, someone else can call him in.”

“You feel he no longer has a place in the Avengers?”

At that, Stark’s eyes flashed brighter than T’Challa had seen them since entering the Compound. “He weighed Barnes over all the Avengers: over Nat, Rhodey, Vision, Wilson, Wanda… his reputation, his country, Clint and his family, mini-Agent Carter… _Lang_ and his family… it doesn’t matter if that was intentional or—no, it’s _worse_ if he was so irrational about Barnes that he didn’t even think about it, any of it. How are any of us supposed to trust him now?”

The way Stark spoke of trust was—it was interesting to T’Challa, who heard a certain note of desperation alongside the hurt and spite. From a man who could no longer trust himself, who had put his faith in one of his culture’s mightiest paragons, and who had then been so soundly rejected by that paragon. No wonder Stark looked as though he had not slept through the night since Rogers and Barnes arrived in Wakanda.

Perhaps it would be beneficial to offer a show of trust to this man. Invite him to put his faith in someone new. Someone who already knew he had so much to lose.

“After my father was killed,” he said solemnly, which drew all of Stark’s attention into a needle-point. “I vowed to murder the man responsible. To take the life of James Barnes with my own hands.”

Stark’s face split into a sneer. “Are you trying to make me feel better, Your Kingliness? ‘Cause if so your logic is off. I know you were there, creeping around in Siberia. _You_ wanted to kill Barnes because you thought he was guilty: _I_ wanted to kill him even knowing he was innocent.”

Self-loathing seeped like poison through those words, and he was beginning to understand the depths of the deception Stark had pulled on the whole world.

“And yet,” T’Challa continued, not permitting his sympathy to enter his voice. “Barnes is alive and well. For all of your armor’s destructive capacity, his worst injury was losing an artificial limb. Do not think to pretend that you were not capable of killing both Barnes and Rogers had you truly wished to do so.”

“Clearly you didn’t stick around for the good part,” Stark snapped, rising from his chair and crossing his arms over his chest almost absently.

“I saw you lash out in pain,” T’Challa corrected, looking solidly up at him. “I did not need to watch you restrain yourself.”

Stark glared at him, clearly trying to win this argument for reasons T’Challa could not quite fathom. He seemed determined to convince him that he was no less dangerous to the Avengers than Rogers himself. This was not an issue that could be solved with one conversation, however, and T’Challa did not yet know the man well enough to push much further.

“Revenge is an act of hatred,” he said instead, maintaining a calm look on Stark while the other man practically stood over him. “But justice is an act of compassion. You spared Barnes because, as you said, you knew he was not to blame. That is just.”

Stark’s entire body—which had gone rigid when he first spoke—slackened suddenly in surprise. Then he slumped a little, dropping back into the chair, and Stark ran a hand over his face, then through his hair, avoiding T’Challa’s eye. “Then why do I feel cheated?”

“I cannot answer that, Stark,” he admitted. “I can only tell you, I have learned that people will never learn the true cost of their actions if you continue to take on all the consequences of those actions. No matter what reasons we have, we do not do others a service to shelter them forever.”

He was finally treated to a speculative gaze. Perhaps Stark was beginning to understand that T’Challa was only willing to offer Rogers respite as long as it was productive. Only until the fear and uncertainty of losing that safety one day would force actions to be taken.

“It is not my place to determine whether the people I protect use my protection to hurt or help themselves,” he added, after a moment of thought. “I can only offer my compassion, and perhaps hope that they prove I do not care more for them than they for me.”

After a few seconds of silence, Stark added wryly: “You can’t control people,” in the manner of a man who was still struggling with the concept.

It made T’Challa quirk a little smile: truly an engineer through and through.

“And call me Tony,” Stark said abruptly. “That ‘Stark’ thing gets old, fast.”

He nodded obligingly. “You may call me T’Challa.”

Tony gave him a weak smile, then took a breath and looked him solemnly in the eye. “I’m sorry you lost your father like that.”

T’Challa nodded, accepting the condolence, but narrowed his eyes nonetheless. “I hope you do not also blame yourself for this.”

After Tony gave him a stunted, helpless sort of shrug, T’Challa sighed. He gave Tony a measuring look, then began speaking quietly. “My culture tells a story of a man, a great warrior cursed by Hathor for his pride, and for the lives he had stolen in battle. She laid upon his shoulders the great burden of endless compassion, one that could never be lifted." He settled back in his chair. "The man was left to roam the world, so consumed with love for all he saw, giving endlessly; and yet unable to allow others to share his pain for loving them too greatly. Eventually, he found peace when—”

A great _boom_ burst out not five feet away.

Even as T’Challa—who had leapt instantly to his feet—realized that it came from Tony’s new red-and-blue accomplice landing sideways on the great glass wall of the room, Tony was practically going into paroxysms in his chair.

He swore viciously, clutching at the knot of his tie. “Fuck _me_! Alan…” He sucked in a shaky breath, pulling the tie open. “… _Turing_ , that kid’s taken another year off my life.”

A laugh threatened in T’Challa’s chest, joy bubbling up from the comical wideness of Tony’s eyes, as well as the brand new recruit crouched at a ninety degree angle on the window to Tony’s office, waving cheerfully and apparently unaware of the shock he’d given them (which T’Challa considered unlikely). The mask over his mouth was moving, but since the soundproofing in the room was still in full effect, T’Challa merely stared at him flatly.

Tony, somewhat recovered, jabbed his finger onto the desk and shouted: “Get your ass inside, Spider-Ling! We have royalty visiting!”

The spider jumped at Tony’s voice, which was presumably bellowing out from external speakers, then gave them both a salute and started crawling sideways along the building. T’Challa watched his progress with interest, then turned his attention back to Tony.

“A permanent recruit?” he asked blandly, which made Tony glare at him.

“Yes, hah, very funny, you’re all—”

T’Challa abruptly held up a quelling hand. Tony fell quiet as T’Challa stared in surprise at the other man’s chest. They sat in silence—intent on T’Challa’s side, and wary on Tony’s—for a few moments.

Then T’Challa looked up and met Tony’s eyes. “What is wrong with your heart?”

Tony sighed. “I’m taking care of it.”

“That does not sound like something you can take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Tony snapped, but he sounded a little nervous as well as angered, which made T’Challa frown.

“Are you seeing a doctor?”

Tony sighed _pointedly_. “Yes, dear, do you want to come hold my hand next time I visit?”

T’Challa gave him a faint glare, but conceded that he was already toeing the line of prying needlessly, and decided to let it go for the moment.

A few seconds later, the red-and-blue heart attack was knocking on the translucent wall into the office and then, from what of him T’Challa could make out through the glass, apparently arguing with thin air. Ayo was watching him dubiously. It took a moment for T’Challa to realize that he was likely speaking to FRIDAY. He was let in a moment later, and stopped dead at the sight of T’Challa.

“You—Your Highness,” he said in shock. Americans had such interesting conceptions of royalty.

“The correct title for a king is ‘Your Majesty’,” T’Challa told the young man, keeping a straight face. Discomfort visibly crawled over the spider’s shoulders in the long moment before he added: “But you are welcome to call me T’Challa. What am I to call you?”

“Oh, uh—” Was his response, as the spider turned to look in Tony’s direction.

Tony threw up his hands. “Your call, kiddo.”

The spider squirmed a little. “Is he…?”

T’Challa watched Tony peer at the spider, a very interesting dynamic flitting between them. Finally, Tony said, “He’s alright,” and FRIDAY chimed in with, “I like him, Spidey,” and that seemed to do it.

“Oh, okay,” Spidey stammered, glancing around the room to ensure that the privacy opacity had been fully engaged, before cautiously reaching up and dragging the mask off his head. He was young: a teenager. His face was open and kind, soft but still with a certain determination as he stared back at T’Challa. “I’m Peter,” he said, glancing over at Tony, who gave him a thumbs-up. “Parker. Spider-Man.”

T’Challa assessed the youth for a moment, then gave him a nod in greeting and turned to Tony. “He is young.”

Tony bristled automatically at the comment (as did Peter, a little), but he searched T’Challa’s face for a moment and seemed to find no form of censure. Indeed, T’Challa was simply curious as to what led Tony to make the controversial and potentially risky decision to let such a young man onto a team that encountered great danger on a regular basis.

“Pete,” Tony said. “Sit. Sit. Don’t stand over us, you’re not getting us tea. Sit, there, yes… okay.” Peter scrambled into a chair, where he crouched on the balls of his feet, arms resting on his knees, and seemed torn between looking helplessly at Tony, warily at T’Challa, or nonchalantly at the carpet. “Well,” Tony sighed. “At least you’re in the chair. Hey, Webster, why don’t you tell T’Challa what you told me about your… philosophy?”

Peter looked a little lost, and T’Challa took pity on him. “I would like to know why you seek to join the Avengers, Peter.”

“Oh,” Peter said, taking another bolstering look at Tony before doing his best to look T’Challa in the eye. “I, um, I just think that, if you have—you know—powers, like I do, and you don’t use them… then when bad things happen because you didn’t help, they…” He paused, sneaking another look at Tony. “Well, they happen because of you. Because you should have helped, and you didn’t.”

T’Challa froze. The others must have seen his dawning horror, because they exchanged a look at the edge of his vision, and Tony called his name in confusion.

“Oh shit, did I _break the king_?” he heard Peter say in a strained whisper, which Tony chose to ignore so he could say T’Challa’s name again, more forcefully.

“What you are talking about,” T’Challa said, as soon as he had composed his thoughts a little. “Is the beginning of a dangerous, arrogant path.”

Both Tony and Peter blinked at him, lost.

“But—” Peter blurted. “We have a responsibility—”

“Of course,” T’Challa interrupted, leaning forward in his chair, trying to connect with both Peter and Tony—the latter of whom was staring at him like he had no idea what T’Challa’s objection could possibly be. “With powers like you or I possess, there is a responsibility to use those powers with care.” Peter nodded, slowly, clearly not quite bridging the gap, yet. “That does not mean, Spider-Man, that you must use those powers.”

Peter’s face scrunched up, and Tony was frowning as well. T’Challa felt a little tight knot form in his stomach at the thought of the sheer stress these two were putting upon themselves by thinking this way.

“Your abilities are your responsibility,” he tried again. “Other people are not.”

“But I can _help_ ,” Peter said, sounding strained. “I can’t just stand by and do _nothing_ if I can help…”

“You can do that,” T’Challa argued. “But what makes you believe you cannot is your goodness, not basic morality. You wish to help, and that is noble. But your responsibility is not to use your powers to help, but rather to be responsible in how you use them. To make sure you do not abuse them, or use them to do harm.”

Peter looked poleaxed, and honestly Tony was not much better. T’Challa felt a rush of relief that at least they both seemed willing to reconsider their stance. This slippery, ruinous concept that everything that happens for good or for bad could possibly be the responsibility of one person. To believe that you have the ability to help people separate from your willingness to do so runs the dangerous risk of turning from a sense of responsibility to a sense of supreme authority over others. Not least because to think in this way does not rule out the idea of “helping” by abusing one’s influence and ability. That line of thinking will drive a person to decay, or to madness.

T’Challa saw this to an extent in Captain Rogers—who seemed unable to walk away when he was clearly compromised, because of his slowly ingrained belief that he had the power to defy all others’.

“That’s…” Peter let out, finally, in a small voice. “That could be what—my uncle, he told me that he had a lot of power because of his job, and that meant he had to be… responsible. I always thought…”

He trailed off, and T’Challa nodded, content with his progress for this conversation, at least. Peter did not seem as though he had fully embraced the concept quite yet, but at least he was considering it.

Then there was the matter of Tony. T’Challa turned to him and saw that he was staring back, eyes wide and brow furrowed. Perhaps he was wondering along the lines of what T’Challa had just been thinking, that Rogers had recently demonstrated one outcome of considering oneself responsible to act if possessing the power, no matter whether or not one was wanted. Was that not, after all, why he had shunned the Accords? Because they threatened his capacity to determine the terms of his actions? Because he wanted to help people, but only in the way that he wished to do so?

“I did not finish my tale,” T’Challa said in a calm voice, trying to soothe a clearly ruffled Tony and a slightly frantic Peter. “About the man cursed with compassion.” Tony just gave him a nod to signal that he was listening, and Peter glanced between the pair of them curiously. “The man was never able to share his burden for loving too much, but he was given respite when someone fell in love with him in return, and took some of the weight from his shoulders without his asking. So he learned not only to love, but how to be loved, and to take on the burdens of others as they took on his own.”

“And he lived happily ever after,” Tony completed with a dry smile.

Neither T’Challa nor Peter smiled in return.

 

•

 

Anyone who was anyone in the tech world knew of Hank Pym.

Any one of those anyones knew that Hank Pym was a cantankerous and brilliant asshole, who was not to be crossed.

Anyone who was not Howard fucking Stark had therefore not worked with, betrayed, and subsequently made an ancestral enemy of Hank Pym.

Or that was the theoretical situation, at least, one which Tony found himself reevaluating for the first time when FRIDAY let him know, of a cheerful Tuesday morning, that there was one Hope van Dyne on hold for him.

“Is Scott with you?” was what she greeted him with.

“Sorry, he can’t come to the phone right now, he’s running wild and free in my terrarium,” he retorted half-heartedly, tapping his fingers on the desk. “I had nothing to do with the breakout.”

She scoffed, but did not elaborate. “Is he safe?”

Hell if Tony knew. He wasn’t entirely sure what Rogers and/or Pym had told Lang to make him join Rogers’s band of merry men, but they still couldn’t have known each other for more than, say, an hour before Lang went to supermax for his newest crimes. Tony could only assume that Lang was a complete idiot or, generously, that he was utterly, pathetically gaga over Captain America.

“I’m working on it,” was what he finally said.

She surprised him by dropping the matter, and sounding genuinely relieved when she then asked him about the Ant-Man suit. He did not have it, and told her so, which drew out a rather fetching stream of invectives against a certain unnamed secretary. Since Tony was already in the middle of suing for Wilson and Barton’s gear—or at least having his cheerful band of lawyers sue for it—on the grounds that they were his designs and his manufacture and his property, no matter who had been using it at the time, it was not much of a hardship to tell van Dyne he was willing to go for the Ant-Man suit as well.

“Don’t bother,” she said curtly. She sounded frustrated with something other than him, which made a nice change. “I’ll take care of it. The suit still belongs to my father, which he won’t let me forget for a second.”

Tony snorted. “I’ve heard only good things about your father.”

“I’m sure,” she deadpanned. “None of which came from me.”

“Let me guess,” Tony replied, dredging up a very old memory of his own father ranting and raving in an increasingly drunken state one night in the mansion’s downstairs library. “He wants the suit back, and doesn’t care one way or another about Lang.”

“You’ve met him,” van Dyne surmised wryly.

“Not exactly.” He quite liked this woman. “So when are you swinging by the Compound?”

There was a brief silence. “What do you want, Stark?”

But she sounded curious and perhaps even oddly fond (as well as exasperated), which reminded him of Pepper and… instead of it feeling _awful_ , it made him feel quite warm towards her.

“I have a brood to think of,” he said smoothly, and she fell silent.

“I’ll be over tomorrow.”

Hope van Dyne was a tall, razor-sharp woman with very quick, kind eyes. She tried to hide them beneath a haircut that outlined each hard ridge of her face like a warning sign, but they still sparkled irrepressibly at him. When she arrived at the Compound, she immediately set about doing her best to steamroll over him at every turn as they talked strategy. Later, he watched her interact with Vision with a sort of unholy glee: both of them icy and stiff and very impressed with each other.

Until Vision remarked how like Pepper she was—and van Dyne forever embedded herself on Tony’s A-OK list for remarking that was perhaps the highest compliment she had ever been paid.

Lang’s daughter and ex-wife were on the news a few days later, with little Cassie begging for her father to come home. Hope watched the segment at the Compound with her arms crossed and her jaw set, tolerating it, but furious at the need. To have their faces on television (especially when Cassie was so darn cute and Maggie so pretty and wholesome) not only made a dent in public opinion about Lang, at least, but more importantly made it more difficult for either of the pair to vanish suddenly without a fuss being raised by _someone_.

As always, shit was thrown at the fan in industrial quantities over that decision, but both Hope and Tony were adamant that it was safest that way. Tony hated to think that things could not have gotten any worse for Lang, anyway, because thinking these things seemed to dare the universe to challenge them. (But Tony still thought it.)

Hope was a passing phantom come to scold and socialize in roughly equal measure from time to time, but Peter soon became a fairly regular fixture at the Compound, especially on weekends, starting the Saturday T’Challa arrived. He was so young and shiny, and Tony almost felt obligated to get the kid in on his Avengers comm-band project when Peter’s eyes went as wide as the white disks on his mask at the sight of Tony’s portable repulsor band.

T’Challa also seemed interested in Peter—or at least in grilling him about his life choices vis-à-vis the spandex and being used as target practice by the most desperate criminals of New York City. Peter was forced to defend his determination to sign on to the Avengers and sign the Accords, which he had already told Tony he wanted to do and yet which Tony had not quite, as such, technically, gotten around to arranging yet, with a sort of ill feeling in his gut every time he thought about it.

Both he and T’Challa had been duly impressed by Peter’s grasp of general legal proceedings. As it turned out, the late husband of his Aunt May had been one of New York’s finest, dying in crossfire during what might have been a simple till robbery. Peter was clearly still shaken up at his loss, which they gleaned had been only been about eighteen months earlier. 

But it was from this man that Peter had learned concepts such as due process of law, rather than the _Law and Order_ or _Blue Bloods_ marathons that were the source of most people's legal knowledge. This meant he was well aware that he had no real authority to arrest anyone, but only to ensure that they did not evade capture and justice until the police could come and make it official. He was also aware that he was breaking the law by donning the mask. As obviously uncomfortable with it as he was, he was also determined that he had a duty to use his abilities to help, and nobody in their right mind would hire a sixteen-year-old spider-halfling into the police force.

(That, apparently, was where Tony came in.)

As Peter and T’Challa argued over the Accords, with T’Challa systematically and abrasively challenging Peter’s opinions and thinking process along with occasional contributions from the peanut gallery (i.e. Tony and, occasionally, FRIDAY or an intrigued Vision), Peter grew more adamant that he wanted to make sure any evidence he provided would be legal and admissible in court. Because just catching the crooks simply wasn’t always enough.

Once T’Challa was reasonably satisfied, he permitted Peter—who, at that point, looked a little as though he’d gone through a blender—to read not only the existing Accords in full, but the addendum he and Tony were working on (in tandem with the aforementioned swarm of lawyers).

“Why’d you call it the Spencer Protocol?” was one of the only questions the kid posed that T’Challa could not answer—and Tony could not yet bring himself to.

And Tony was all but breathless with relief when Peter agreed not to sign the Accords as they stood, but wait for the Protocol to go through the wringer. Much like the suit Tony had already prepared for the kid before ever even showing up on his doorstep, Tony was determined that the Accords not get anywhere near him without them being as safe as it was humanly possible to get them.

His pattern had failed him in the debate over the Accords—he had somehow permitted his emotions and his idealism to run riot over his mandate. The document was supposed to protect people from the Avengers, but…

Tony was starting to realize that they had made no such effort to protect the Avengers from the people.

It was an oversight he was actively working to correct, with T’Challa, with Rumiko, with everyone who would help. But to Tony, it felt like a hopeless, spiraling failure already. Like the practical demands that Tony threw out there in Berlin, trying to keep Barnes from being extradited to Wakanda by a man with a crown, a death-grudge, and claws made of space razors. All he could think of was making Steve a government official and therefore putting Barnes’s “arrest” at his hands into the Avengers’ territory.

Everett Ross was all but chomping at the bit to throw that particularly ugly problem into T’Challa’s waiting hands, and the only thing that stalled him from doing so was Tony’s assurances that he would get Rogers’s signature on the Accords within the hour.

Steve had rejected that offer of security—which Tony still wrestled with, desperately trying to understand how his offer had fallen so short.

Perhaps Tony was just too much of a robot to understand something like Rogers’s friendship with Barnes.

Perhaps when you love someone that much you would never trade their freedom for anything.

If Rhodey were about to be shipped off to anywhere in chains—not to even consider the fucking _cage_ the JTTF had strapped Barnes into, as if he were some feral animal—Tony liked to think he would sign just about _anything_ to prevent that from happening.

But, clearly, Tony was not a very good friend.

Not a friend you trust.

Not a friend you can be honest with.

Peter, when he emerged from one of the guest bedrooms on Sunday morning, was the unfortunate one who stumbled over Tony thinking black thoughts such as these as he hunched over the kitchen counter, in front of the blender.

“If you had a terrible secret,” Tony said in a rough voice, without even turning at Peter’s chipper _good morning, Mr. St-ah–, uh, Tony_. “And it directly affected someone you cared about, in a life-altering way, would you tell them?”

There was a silence, and it went on long enough for Tony to start feeling guilty about dragging the kid into his messed up head. This was not something Peter needed to worry about. Somewhere out there, in a jungle or in a city or wherever the fuck he was, exactly, Tony could feel Rogers disapproving of him yet again, and his hands clenched on the counter top.

“Is this about Aunt May?” Peter asked, softly, and Tony closed his eyes.

Then he seized upon it. “Do you think you should tell her?”

Peter frowned audibly. “Do _you_ think I should?”

This was safer, and Tony took a moment before turning around and leaning against the counter with his arms folded.

Peter was standing there in that awkward, fiddly way reserved for teenagers and Bruce Banner, wearing a baggy gray Stark Industries t-shirt, and looking quite self-conscious about the donated item. There were also black pajama pants he had borrowed from Tony (and not had to roll up nearly as much as Tony would have liked) after calling his aunt and asking for permission to stay at a friend’s house, since they had stayed up so late talking.

He had utterly failed to mention that the _friend_ was half-way across the state and, oh, that he was a _king_ , but Tony had let it slide, figuring it was… essentially true, and it wasn’t as though Peter were in danger.

Only of being philosophized to death by a man who took the phrase “black catsuit” even more seriously than Nat.

“Doesn’t matter what I think, Pete,” Tony commented. “I’m not you, I don’t know everything about your relationship with your hot aunt.”

Peter grimaced at him, as expected. “I don’t want to tell her. She’ll freak, and she’ll be terrified, and there’s nothing she can do ‘cause I won’t stop.”

“But…”

The kid drooped a little. “But I hate lying to her. She’s my only family, you know? She’s all I have.”

That was hardly true, but neither was this the time to talk about it. “You’re all she has, too, Pete. Think of it that way.”

Peter screwed up his nose at Tony. “What’d’you mean?”

Tony did his best not to let the stench of his own overpowering issues creep in, but this was dangerously skirting his limits. “You would want to know if she was in trouble, right? Even if there was nothing you could do to help?”

The kid reluctantly nodded. “I wouldn’t want her to feel like she couldn’t tell me.”

“And she probably doesn’t tell you everything, ‘cause she wants to protect you,” Tony continued. “But she has to tell you the big things, the ones that affect you. Like if she got fired, you think she would keep that a secret?”

“No,” Peter admitted.

“If she got sick, would she tell you?”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, a sad look passing over his face, as though he knew for a fact that she would tell him something like that.

“So, there’s that,” Tony said, very un-smoothly. “Then there’s an ethical question in there too, ‘cause you’re not exactly the most popular guy around New York, at the moment.”

“No thanks to Mr. Jameson,” the kid grumbled, but he was paying rapt attention still.

“Do you think she’s safer if she knows what’s going on, or if you leave her totally in the dark?” Tony managed to keep his voice level.

Reluctantly, Peter chose the first option.

“And when she finds out—which she will, you’re not exactly Batman about this—how much worse do you think it’ll be if she finds out some other way than you telling her?”

Peter grimaced. “Bad. Still… I don’t know, Tony, I don’t want her to… I mean, she’s so… she does so much, and I don’t want to—”

“You’re scared to tell her,” Tony cut him off. “You’re scared to tell anyone.”

Looking very ashamed of himself, Peter nodded. Tony pushed himself off the counter and took the short few steps over to lay his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I was scared to tell,” Tony told him, which made Peter look up at him incredulously.

“You? Mist—Tony? Really? Why?”

Tony shrugged. “It’s different when you’re nameless. You can back out. But once you tell, it’s out there, and you have to deal with it. It’s not your hobby anymore, you get all that responsibility laid on you and nowhere to run.”

Peter looked a little ill, and Tony put his other hand on Peter’s other shoulder. “I’m not saying you have to tell the whole world. I don’t have the press assembled outside.”

They both smiled wanly at the joke, and Peter finally met Tony’s eyes. “It’s not the responsibility that scares me.”

“Isn’t it?” Tony asked, manhandling Peter around and pushing him towards the new sofas.

“Well, maybe a little,” Peter allowed as he plopped onto the sofa and crossed his legs. Tony sat next to him, feet up on the coffee table. “But… my uncle told me when you have a lot of power, it comes with a lot of responsibility too, and to be honest, I don’t think I can handle any more of that right now. I mean… it’s senior year.”

Tony dropped his head back on the headrest. _High school_ , hell. “He wasn’t wrong. But he was a cop, right? And a good guy, by the sounds of it.” (He restrained himself from asking if the uncle had been as hot as the aunt, because that was way more fucked up than Tony planned on being this morning.) He could see Peter nodding curiously out of the corner of his eye. “So he wouldn’t have wanted the authority of his job to go to his head. Maybe he wanted to make sure he was helping people by using the power of his job responsibly.”

“But that’s what I’m doing,” Peter insisted, sounding a little confused.

Tony rolled his head to look at the kid. “Yeah, you are. And I think… your uncle would be really proud of you.” He continued quickly, before anyone could react to that, or to the unspoken _because I sure am_. “But I think you also feel like you have a responsibility to use your powers just because you have them.”

“Yeah…” Now Peter was definitely confused.

“That isn’t the same as using them responsibly,” Tony pointed out.

He could pinpoint the exact moment Peter got it. He continued to gape out the window for a moment, at the gray and misty view, then turned to gape at Tony in much the same way. “Like, you don’t have to do engineering, but if you do you have the responsibility to help people with it, not hurt them.”

Tony’s chest clenched. “Hey, I thought I’m the one who’s always supposed to be making everything about me?”

The astonished look was replaced almost immediately by contrition. “Oh, no, Mr—Tony, I didn’t mean it like that, I—”

“I know what you meant, kid,” Tony said, giving Peter a wan smile and then looking out the window again. “But yeah. Something like that. There’s something to be said for having people watching your every move.”

“So…” Peter was lost in thought for several long seconds. “Is that what you think responsibility is then?”

Tony thought about it for a minute. “The Avengers are powerful. So our baseline responsibility is to not use that power to hurt people. It’s an _optional_ responsibility to use it to help people. None of us _have_ to do it, we chose to. And sometimes power is just influence. Being famous makes you powerful—granted, maybe not as powerful as a Hulk or a demigod, but in its own way, fame comes with a responsibility.”

“Is that why you stayed with the Avengers even when you stopped being Iron Man?” Peter asked tentatively, drawing his knees up and hugging them to his chest.

Perhaps it was. Perhaps Tony had simply not been able to cope with the idea of losing them. He liked to think he stayed because he knew he could do good there. Perhaps he stayed because he felt needed there, and purposeful, and like he wasn’t watching his life whittle down to nothing through a lens to a future he wouldn’t live to see.

“Nah, I just like to keep an eye on the bigger picture,” Tony replied. “I make damn sure my company does good things for the world, but with the Avengers I could do even more than that. A greater good,” he waved his hand around dismissively. “That was the idea anyway. It would have been easier not to bother, but…” He poked Peter’s shoulder. “For all I nag at you, I do get why you feel responsible for using your abilities to do good.”

Peter smiled into his knees. “Like that ancient space movie, right? ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few….”

Tony’s hackles went up. “Now, you wait just a damn minute—”

“… Or the one,” FRIDAY contributed from the ceiling, and Peter snickered.

Tony stared at him. “You’re kidding me with that, right? Right? Bud, please tell me he’s joking.” 

“The film is thirty-seven years old, Boss,” FRIDAY intoned instead, the little traitor.

“Was it even in color?” Peter asked distantly, and even though Tony knew his leg was being pulled, he still puffed up like an angry goose.

“You’re uninvited from movie night,” he informed Peter, shaking his head. “These kids, no respect. FRIDAY, shame on you.”

Peter was pretty much giggling into his borrowed pajama pants, and he turned to give Tony a cheerful look. Then his humor faded, and he looked like he had just that one last killer question needing to bubble out of him. Tony nudged him with his elbow, partly as a punishment for the horrendous disrespect to _Trek_ , and party to nudge the question from him.

“Where do the Accords fit in, then?” it blurted out, and Peter gnawed the inside of his cheek as if he were trying to prevent a stream of clarifying babble slipping out as well.

“They’re key to the whole idea,” Tony said, turning sideways with his elbow on the backrest and one of his legs bent up in front of him on the sofa. “Maybe somewhere out there there’s someone whose sense of responsibility is good enough to keep them in line forever, but most of us mere mortals need the support. When I decided to take control of my company, and make everyone it in accountable for our actions, that was a way to make sure that what… happened—what had been happening for so long—could never happen again.”

He looked at Peter’s bright brown eyes, willing him to understand.

And after a moment, Peter nodded into his knees. “That’s why you couldn’t build weapons anymore, ‘cause you can’t control what people do with them.”

“You can’t control people, kid,” Tony said wryly. “Believe me, I’ve tried harder than you can imagine.”

Peter stayed silent for a minute, then tipped his cheek onto his knee and peered at Tony with his head cocked like a little bird. “So what do you do with them?”

“You trust them,” Tony said easily, pushing all the hurt and pain the simple statement caused into some pit deep in his mind. “And you hope that they’re as committed to their responsibility as you are.”

“Or held accountable?” Peter chimed in.

Relief started to war with the heartache, and Tony offered the kid a wan smile and weak finger gun. “Exactly.”

This must be why he’d always avoided kids and, as he got older, _young people_ in general. Almost every serious interaction he had with Peter felt like some terrible sort of test, or like fishing around in a hat and hoping not to pull out the piece of paper that said _Congratulations! You screwed him up for life!_ It was exhausting, and terrifying, and it wasn’t dying down at all, as far as Tony could tell.

Talk about responsibility: this kid trusted Tony, and Tony felt the weight of it like concrete around his feet.

He wanted to protect Peter, wanted to make sure he was safe and able to make his own good choices, and he had no right at all to feel that way and… he wasn’t sure how he got so attached so quickly.

A sudden burst of terror, a fond old self-destructive voice in his head, demanded that he shove the kid away from him as far as he could go before things got any worse. But Peter—especially since his legal guardian didn’t know about his terrifying habit of putting himself in mortal danger every other day—needed someone to look out for him. He needed to be able to talk to someone about these things, these weird things about risking your life to save others that very few people had advice for. And Tony was certainly the _worst possible person_ for Peter to discuss this with, but he was on a very short list of candidates.

Rhodey, bless him, actively avoided children and even teenagers, which he sometimes jokingly blamed on how much of a terror Tony had been at fourteen when they met (never mind eighteen, when things were getting particularly dark). He seemed to like Peter well enough, but Tony couldn’t imagine his best friend sitting down and coaxing an ethical standpoint from the kid. Vision was hardly worth explaining, and T’Challa was alright but not exactly a constant feature in New York.

Not to mention he had a country to run and a long list of his own problems to deal with.

So Tony pressed back on that bubble of terror that told him to drop the kid like a damp sock and run for the hills. And another part of Tony chimed in then—a small part, with a soft voice, that felt relieved and pleased that it seemed he was still very much _not_ his father.

His father. He could not think about his father, or his _mother_ , or…

“You know?” Peter said just when Tony was about to dip into the spiral, and he felt like he might genuinely, honestly love the kid even if just for that. “You didn’t think Captain America would listen, you know, in Germany, and you were right. He didn’t listen. I don’t even think he heard you, it was really… anyway. But like, he didn’t think you would _care_. He didn’t call you about the super soldiers? There really were super soldiers that needed to be stopped and he didn’t tell you? And he was so _wrong_ , Tony, I just…”

He turned to the side again, and leaned a little bit in Tony’s direction while Tony was frozen solid. “You’re so… different from what I thought you were. You hide. Like, I get hiding, but you hide so well people think so badly of you. I hate it, I hate hearing what they say about you.”

Tony was sure he said something in response, hopefully something wise or at least witty about the opinions of the public, but a small chunk of him, the part that had been so happy that he hadn’t given in and treated Peter like he didn’t matter for the sole reason that he _did_ matter, _so much_ —that little part was pointing out in fucking birdsong that _Peter liked him_ , and Peter was good, and maybe that meant there was hope for Tony.

He ended up with his arm slung over Peter’s shoulder with overwhelming affection.

Until he broke the mood by offering him an espresso (which Peter turned down, laughing about how the phrase “bouncing off the walls” took on a whole new meaning with him).

 

•

 

From time to time, Tony’s thoughts would turn towards the bedrooms down the hall from his own. Three empty rooms where there had once been friends; but one was far worse than the others.

When he received the parcel in the mail he knew exactly who it was from. Rhodey knew, too, which was why he immediately set about being an ass and disappeared, trying to lift Tony’s mood before he went, but not capable of being anywhere near Rogers in any capacity: not wearing his leg braces, not living minus three vertebrae and one intact spinal column.

Tony had planned to open the parcel in his room, but something stopped him in the middle of the hallway, and it felt a little like falling and reaching terminal velocity. He turned right, instead, and went into what had been Steve’s room.

That letter had become an entirely new kind of self-injury over the last few weeks. Tony felt he had it memorized. But the problem with memory was that it was imperfect, biased and flawed, and Tony’s mind had been playing with that letter for almost a month, dissecting it and redirecting it, and now it read like something horrific in his head.

 _Tony_ , began the letter in his mind.

_I heard you’re back at the Compound, now that the real Avengers aren’t there anymore. We all need family, and you should remember every day that what little family you thought you had built has left you once again, instead of hiding from it at the mansion. I know what it’s like to be alone, but now I have people who love me, who are loyal to me, and I don’t care what laws they broke—I won’t let them rot in jail, like you would. Because, unlike you, they didn’t let me down._

_I know I hurt you by lying to you for years, laughing with you and looking you dead in the eyes as if I was your friend. But I had to, because otherwise you wouldn’t have funded my search for your mother’s murderer. I’m sorry I used you, but I would do it all over again if I had to. He will always matter more to me than you, than anything. Hopefully one day someone like you will be able to understand that type of loyalty, and realize I did the right thing after all._

_I wish you weren’t so wrong about the Accords, and too weak to stand by me and do what was necessary—I really do. I know you thought in your own fucked-up way that you did the right thing, and I guess that’s the best I can expect of you. I wouldn’t ask for more. But don’t worry: when the day comes that you realize can’t cope on your own, just give me a call, and I promise I’ll fly right back to save you from the mess you’ve made._

_Steve_.

That was not… _exactly_ what the letter in the desk drawer read, but it wasn’t far off, either.

The phone was almost worse. The letter just sat there, burning a hole in his heart, but the phone was infinitely more complex. Tony knew it would be irresponsible to destroy it, no matter how hurt or furious he was. The man who sent it may very well be needed one day, and though Tony liked to think he was a big enough person to be able to call him in if it was necessary, for the sake of the country or the Earth or whatever was next threatened with annihilation… perhaps not.

It didn’t stop him from fantasizing about what he would do to the fucking flip phone, though. A toss and a repulsor blast. Smashing it with a giant hammer. Taking it apart and building something else out of it, like that little cleaning bot from _Wall ·E_. Or a cat food opener. (Then he could get a cat.) There was a gas fireplace in the den he could toss it into. Perhaps throw it in the microwave—he’d never tried that before. Or… there were some very satisfying hydraulic press videos online he could contribute to.

It was almost soothing to think about it. But still there that phone sat, unassumingly, in an abandoned drawer in an abandoned home. 

Tony knew they hadn’t run away from him, specifically, but sometimes, here, it sure felt like it. Even if they had, he wasn’t sure he’d have blamed them. He had not exactly proven himself a reliable teammate, or really anything other than a constant source of destruction.

He could hardly even think about it. He hurled himself into his work with T’Challa and his job at S.I., where he tried his best to be nowhere near Pepper and give her the space she had asked for. There seemed to be a lot of things he wasn’t capable of dealing with right now.

But no: Tony could not, in good conscience, destroy the phone.

Keeping the letter—on the other hand—was pure masochism.

It was a sort of terrible parallel to his entire relationship with Steve, he thought when he forgot not to think about it. He didn’t need Steve. He had never personally needed Steve, though others did. But he desperately wanted him. And there were things about Steve that Tony… that Tony really, really liked. Things like his unbelievable sass, his determination, his loyalty. It wasn’t Steve’s fault Tony didn’t merit that loyalty, after all, and Tony was already well-aware of his own self-destructive tendencies, so the fact that he was so gone on a man who seemed to hang on his every word at best and who didn’t trust, tolerate, or even talk to him at worst wasn’t exactly shocking. Just pathetic.

Now that Steve had made his “at worst” literally wanting to murder Tony with his bare hands, the whole situation was so fucked up Tony couldn’t stand it. So he reread the letter, and tried to convince his brain that Steve was dangerous, and even noxious. Probably the worst person for Tony to fall for on the face of the Earth. But there it was.

Steve was gone, and as far as Tony was concerned, he could stay gone. One day he would set that letter on fire, but for now he would take the phone and give it to somebody else, somebody better. The world might very well need Captain America, one day. The world might need _all_ the Avengers Rogers had taken with him, one day.

But for now, Tony was just left to think that joining the Avengers was the best thing he could have done for the world.

And the worst possible thing he had ever done to himself.

   
 

 


	6. Informational influence: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Be careful, Your Majesty,” Natasha said, with a grim smile. “You’re beginning to weaponize us, dehumanize us. That’s Ross's favorite play.”
> 
> T’Challa snorted. “Is that so? What term would you prefer I use for Ms. Maximoff’s powers, and her use of them, if ‘deadly force’ is unacceptable?”
> 
> “Good god, are you two going to go at it like alley cats all night?” Tony interrupted, feigning exasperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Important Note 1** : Apologies for the—ehem—delay. A lot of that was initially because of the Cap/Iron Man Big Bang. But between the recent political climate, my increasingly stressful time at university (you will notice the hiatus was almost exactly one academic year long…), and the usual reasons writing is hard, I just didn’t have the strength to do this for a while. I’m not abandoning this fic.  
>   
> (By the way, comments definitely jump-start my inspiration to write. To everyone who left one (especially long after the last chapter was published), you’re at least 75% of the reason this update exists!)  
>   
>  **Important Note 2** : The purpose of this story is to tackle the events of CA:CW in more detail than the film was able (or willing) to do. Steve, for example, suffers in others’ viewpoints because he’s an easy, even _necessary_ target. This is largely thanks to his piss-poor screenwriting/characterization continuity. To make it explicit: **I, the author, don’t necessarily share the views of the characters**. I actually outright disagree with a lot of it since, unlike the characters, _I_ know the whole story… But as is the general rule of fandom, **don’t like; don’t read**. Take care of yourselves… be kind to me.  
>   
>  Also, I changed the timeline of the fic after using my brain a little more. If the timeline in this chapter conflicts with something you read earlier (if you can remember that long ago… :/), these ones are accurate. (By the way, does anyone know how to get the tags to appear in the order I actually want them in?? Or is that not a thing?)  
>   
> Okay, now that the housekeeping is done, enjoy!  
>  

_**Informational influence (II)** : A framing bias is often created around another’s decisions, so that the same action may be perceived as either bold or arrogant, depending the person in question. This often coincides with _information cascades _(in which one person makes a decision which is assumed to be correct and copied, even if others did not privately come to the same conclusion), and the_ halo effect _(a cognitive bias in which a positive impression of one aspect of a person positively influences impressions of other, more ambiguous aspects of the same person)._

 

•

 

Regimes fell every day. She knew this like she knew the flash of a blade in her palm, or the lurch of gravity as she twisted through the air. But Natasha had no memory of ever mourning a regime—especially one she’d had a hand in collapsing. Then again, she had no memory of ever stepping in to prevent such a fall of her own volition, either, or of ever feeling so emotionally invested that she would make her decisions based on feeling, rather than orders or objectivity. Sometimes she felt that this made her strong. Other times it made her feel monstrous.

So no, Natasha Romanoff had never wept for the fall of an empire.

But she had grieved over the fall of her family.

Before the dust had time to settle she’d fled the Compound and the country, wondering briefly why Tony had not just taken her in himself as soon as he saw her in the medical center. It was foolish for her to have gone back to him at all, knowing he could have. She supposed that meant she really did trust him. But it took a worryingly long time for her to figure out that perhaps he hadn’t acted against her then for the same reason she would not have arrested Steve. Not unless she was ordered to. And even then she had found it within herself to ignore those orders, ignore her own judgment in signing the Accords, and had chosen to let her friend go free.

Tony had done the same for her.

For many weeks after that she had tried to process the idea: that Tony might feel for her what she felt for Steve. So much so that he could disagree with her actions and feel morally opposed to the stance she had taken, but still not be willing to be the one putting her in danger. And with his oldest, most beloved friend laid up and paralyzed on a gurney a few doors away, he would have had every reason to lash out against her. But he hadn’t. Hadn’t even hesitated. He'd even warned her that Ross would be coming for her. And although she had intended to run no matter what she found there, she remembered that he chose to warn her.

She still remembered, in quiet moments, that he had let her go—even as he accused her of committing the same crime for Steve and Barnes. She remembered still how he’d tried to keep the fighting subdued and brought in the most famously non-lethal metahuman in the U.S., while she drafted a mostly unknown but demonstrably lethal ally with an obvious death grudge. She remembered Tony telling Vision to stay as backup only, the emergency clause, in case they were unable to bring Steve, Clint, and the others in without an ugly fight. She remembered that she hadn’t realized how much Tony had been holding back until he asked if she wanted him to stop. She had seen the look on Tony’s face when Ross threatened to use deadly force against Captain America, and probably anyone sailing in his wake.

She had known there would be a fight, because she knew Steve. Still, it hit her like a repulsor to the gut when she realized… they weren’t going to stop Steve unless they were willing to hurt him. Hurt him so badly he wouldn’t be _able_ to get up and go on. It hit her that the only thing she could do to save him was to let him slip through her fingers. Was to betray Tony’s trust yet once more. She had weighed Steve against Tony and realized she could never let Steve go. And Steve was smart—bullheaded, but not prone to flights of fancy. If he was willing to fight with fists and fury to steal the quinjet, he must have had a damn good reason. Tony had been deafened by the thunderous ticking of Ross’s deadline—minutes hammering down upon his chest, counting out the seconds before Ross flew in the gunships—but Natasha, at least, had heard Steve’s attempt to tell Tony about some sort of danger involving more super-soldiers.

The choice had been clear. It had seemed so clear.

Even so, the idea that Tony might have felt the kind of loyalty for her that she felt for Steve was almost crippling in its complexity. At the time, she had been reeling from disbelief at her own actions. She had returned to see Rhodes in guilt… uncertainty… in _shock_. This was not what was supposed to happen. This shouldn’t have happened.

Tony had looked five minutes from bursting into tears when she first caught sight of him, though he’d shoved it back under a layer of coldness as soon as he’d turned and seen her there. And at the time, she had felt his accusations of disloyalty like a knife through her ribs—had she not proven to him that she was on the Avengers’ side? Had she not spent _years_ trying to prove to him that she was worthy of his trust, after their disastrous first meeting? Had she not made it clear from the start that she was only going along with the Accords because they were the best way to preserve the Avengers, to save her family? He had _no_ right to tell her she had betrayed him! When it was _he_ who’d chosen to double down on taking sides.

But there were no sides, she had finally realized. There were only people, just vulnerable people and the tenuous ties between them. Ties stretched to their limits, then forced to break at the weakest points. In the end, the question was not who was the most powerful, or who had the most _right_ , but who had the strongest bonds. And Tony had lost that contest in every dimension. King T’Challa was loyal only to his own agenda, and both Spider-Man and Lang had no real stake. Logical Vision was crippled by his feelings for Wanda, and Natasha by her weakness for Steve. The only combatant that could possibly have been considered loyal to Tony had been the one to pay the steepest price.

It had gotten so out of hand so quickly. She was still trying to sort through the sequence of events, desperately trying to figure out how it had gone so wrong when everyone had gone in with the best of intentions. She had truly believed it was more important that they stayed together at all than how they did so. She knew that the less practical members of the team—largely Steve and Wanda, though Sam had surprised her—would not be comfortable with the idea of conceding to the Accords, even if only to preserve their values.

But she had never believed for a moment that they would literally choose to punch and claw their way out of their family. That they would choose exile rather than compromise.

She was very aware that where most people had morals, she had columns of black-and-red equations. She had been raised that way, and sometimes she wondered if she had been programmed as surely as Vision. (The idea made her queasy. She cut him out of missions where she could, and wherever else she did as much as possible to distance herself from him. It wasn’t fair to him, she knew. But her programming hadn’t been fair to her.) The comparison became harder and harder to ignore as he sat opposite her in their home, speaking of commensurate rates of violence while she tried to convince herself that she was not making an emotional argument to preserve her team, but rather a logical calculation based on the shifting political terrain.

Now she could see that, for others—for Steve, who did not have slick programming ticking at his core—the means of preserving your family is equally as important as the desire to do so. Steve’s morals would not allow him to fall back and accept that his family would have to change if they conceded to the Accords. She wanted to think that made him strong, but she knew in her heart it made him weak. Made him vulnerable, like a brittle reed that would snap long before it would bend.

But perhaps it was better to be weak and moral than to be strong and monstrous. She could not change who she was any more than he could.

And in the end, splitting herself between her practicality and her love for the others had meant she ended up betraying all of them—and losing them all in one fell swoop.

Perhaps she was taking the hard-hearted option now, but the emotional choice had only left her hurt and raw and alone. It left her guiltily desperate for the coldness and detachment she had survived on as an enslaved girl and a free young woman. She felt like an ancient relic, though she was only just entering her thirties. She had decisions dragging on her soul that had aged her past the point of humanity. And perhaps it was the cold-blooded choice to return to the Compound, to attempt to reconstruct one half of her life and leave the other behind. Because the other half was lost to her and useless besides, thanks to the choices they had made.

She still had red in her ledger, and there was nothing Steve or Clint could do to help her with that anymore.

But when she arrived at the Compound that evening and saw Tony for the first time in weeks, slumped at the computer in his office in a rumpled black suit, it was the first time she’d allowed herself to admit that she loved _him_ , too.

Steve was easy to love, sometimes. He was kind and brave, argumentative and pushy, and a pleasing complement to everything that she was. Tony was too alike her—to the parts of her she most wished were different or dead, and it made her uncomfortable sometimes to be around him. Like she was looking into a funhouse mirror, and was not quite able to determine what was distortion and what was her own reflection.

And yet, Tony was alike her in ways that gave her hope, too. He too was haunted by a past of unasked questions and irrevocable sins. He too had become monstrous, and now he did his best to make up for it. Anyone would be hard-pressed to argue that he hadn’t done an unrepayable amount of good for the world since his return from Afghanistan. He thought in calculations and projections, but did his best not to be ruled by them. He loved deeply, but was terrified of permitting that knowledge to get out too far, in case it compromised him later.

Unlike her, though, she knew that Tony was _kind_. Was bursting with love from every rusted shadow of his heart, even though all those soft things had been cored from him as best as Howard Stark could manage when he was just a child—as they had been taken from her by the Red Room, with far more efficiency and effectiveness. And most of what Tony’s father had left behind had been slowly scraped away over the years by the media and a life of scrutiny, public judgment, and public record of every foolish decision he had ever made. Everything kind left in him had to fight to be heard, and had to hide behind asshole bravado and infantile flippancy.

Unlike her, Tony did not get to hide the ugly details of his past. Even when she had accepted her fate and agreed to dump S.H.I.E.L.D.’s files on the internet, she’d soon realized that JARVIS had polished up or disappeared some of the ugliest parts of her record before it made its way to the world. She had never asked about it. She had never asked if JARVIS had done that of his own volition, or if Tony had been alerted and immediately dug in to do preemptive damage control. She was afraid to ask, because knowing for certain would make it even more difficult to keep Tony at arm’s length. It was bad enough that Clint had woven his way into her system all those years ago, then to have Steve there forcing her to at least _try_ to be a more moral person. She feared that if she let in someone so teeming with love and the desperate need to use it like a shield to defend everyone he cared for, even at his own expense, even at theirs… she feared that she would lose what little remained of her identity, and the armor she had so carefully cultivated all these years.

So her worst mistakes were heavily encrypted and stored somewhere known only to a few, while practically everything Tony had ever done from the age of four was a matter of public record. Just the thought of that kind of scrutiny almost sent her into an anxious spiral, and she truly did not understand how someone as sensitive as Tony could cope. Even with all the layers upon layers of armor and emotional shells he had accumulated, she wondered how much of a capacity to be horrified and hurt he still retained.

“I thought for sure you’d be able to last longer than that, out on your own.”

There was neither horror nor hurt in Tony’s voice as he acknowledged her presence, without even glancing away from his screen. She started. If nothing else, she knew she was good enough at her job that Tony should not have known she was there yet. She was using the cloaking device Tony himself had given her, adjusted for FRIDAY’s protocols. It was possible, but unlikely, that the A.I. had given her away.

Seeming to guess the reason for her silence, as she rounded the doorway Tony held up his left hand, displaying his watch. “Radar’s badass baby brother.”

Her stomach clenched. He felt so unsafe, even in his own home, that he was wearing a proximity detector?

“Have you heard from Steve?” she asked, taking a few steps into the room.

He went rigid for a split second, before pulling on another layer of armor. Her heart sank to see the proof of how far she had fallen.

“I guess that answers that question,” he muttered, in response to a conversation she was no part of. “Why are you here, then?”

“Not to hurt you,” she felt the need to reassure, unfolding her arms and trying not to fuel his fear.

“For what _that’s_ worth,” he said harshly. “But then again, you do come from the Nick Fury school of breaking and entering and expecting people to roll over and take it, because ‘you don’t mean any harm’.”

She pursed her lips, wondering what Nick had done to provoke that. “Tony, I wouldn’t.”

He stood in a smooth motion, pushing his chair back, and turned to face her fully. He was making no pretenses with his body language—his arms were folded defensively over his chest, and he glared at her as though he really did expect she might have Bites up her sleeves, and no qualms about using them.

“What makes you think I am even capable of trusting you anymore, Nat?” he snapped, and she supposed she could at least be grateful he was still using her nickname. “You’ve given me every reason not to, and pretty much spat on any attempt to replace it with actual accountability.”

“You did trust me once,” she pointed out.

He scowled at her. “Yeah, well I have a history of putting my faith in the people I should have been the most wary of. But did you really think I was stupid enough to trust _Ross_? The man who threatened to throw _me_ in prison because _you_ couldn’t do your one job?”

“You put me in the middle of the fight with an impossible choice to make,” she retorted, keeping her thoughts far from her face.

His fingers clenched in his sleeves. “‘I put you.’ I’m sorry, are you saying this was _my fault_? If you were going to side with Rogers no matter what, why did you even pretend to give a damn about the Accords?”

“You wanted me to be a bridge between you and Steve,” she said evenly. “But it was too late for an intermediary, and you know it.”

“No, what I know,” he shot back. “Is that you played both sides from the start because you’re too afraid and too reliant on being broken to bother growing a moral compass. You chose Rogers, and you let him go free against your _own_ judgment, and as a result my best friend had his spine snapped in half. Not to mention that Steve is now a criminal in exile, you’ve been forced back off the grid, and you’ve come here because you want to ask me for my help, _yet again_. That’s what I know, _Nat_.”

On second thought, perhaps any other name would be preferable to her own hissed like that, like a hated curse.

“I made a call. Maybe it wasn’t the best, but under the circumstances it was the only one I could make.”

He glared. “Even you don’t believe that. You told me to my face that if I didn’t stop, Rhodey would be the best case scenario. Because Steve wouldn’t stop, and you wouldn’t dare try to stop him. You act like you weren’t there to hear Ross say he was willing to _kill_ Steve, to gun him down like a wild animal. You act like you didn’t have the chance to stop him. You want to believe we played the whole thing wrong because you can’t stand to think that you were blinded by loyalty and could easily have made a _hundred_ better choices.”

She blinked at him, thinking quietly. “… Feel better?”

Immediately she realized that had been a mistake. His face shuttered at her flippant response, and the magnitude of what had happened between them hit her in a rush. She had been counting on his well-worn pattern of forgiving every slight made against his ego, quietly letting them go in the name of the team. But no, this was not the Tony Stark she had known. This was a man who, like her, had fought tooth and nail to protect everything he loved—and had only been able to watch as it all left him without so much as a backwards glance. She mourned, briefly, the spark of faith that had once been instrumental in holding together their ragtag band.

This Tony may have finally given up on her. Just like he had warned her that Ross was coming, but had offered her no assistance. He was no longer a refuge—and perhaps she had taken his goodwill for granted one time too many, because the loss of it hurt her now in the pit of her stomach, in a way she had become used to never having to experience.

Perhaps she had earned his mistrust, but this was not the time for their personal squabbles. She refused to make another emotional decision in the moment, and kept her face blank—though she wished to crack and ask Tony for his forgiveness. She knew she had wronged him. But it was a crime they both knew she would commit over and over again, if given the chance.

“This is a curious time for a social call.”

She whipped around, and was only slightly mollified by her failure to hear the newcomer’s approach when she saw who it was. “Your Majesty,” she acknowledged respectfully, and was only a little surprised when he scowled at her in response.

T’Challa strode past her in order to place himself beside and slightly in front of Tony: a blatantly defensive stance. It would only be partially accurate to say she didn’t understand their reactions. The only thing she had not realized was how bad it would be. Perhaps she had let Tony stew in their mistakes for too long before approaching him. However, she’d have thought the king would have better judgment than to take anything Tony said about the Accords debacle with less than a grain of salt.

“I wanted to speak with Tony alone,” she noted, trying to make eye contact with Tony and make it clear that she was at least _trying_ to mend some of the damage she had done, if he would only give her a chance.

“FRIDAY summoned me here,” T’Challa told her bluntly, and she was momentarily stunned.

FRIDAY had thought her such a threat that she’d called for backup?

“That’s not necessary,” she protested.

Did Tony honestly believe she would ever hurt him? Or was this just another show of stubborn pique?

While Tony avoided her gaze entirely, T’Challa stared at her unflinchingly, securely, from a position of superior knowledge and understanding. A small but highly discomfiting grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. That smile had weighed her, judged her, and found her _gravely_ wanting. “So protests the serpent, from beneath the innocent flower.”

She frowned. “I only want to talk. Tony—”

“You should leave now,” T’Challa interrupted. “You are not wanted here.”

That wasn’t true. That couldn’t be true. This was her home. “And what do you have to do with this?” she finally snapped.

If possible, the king’s eyes grew even more grim. The smile dropped. “Hiss at me all you like, snake. Will you shoot me again to prove where your loyalties lie?”

“That wasn’t personal,” she reminded him, with an icy smile.

“Oh no, Agent Romanoff, it certainly was not personal for me. For you… I am not so sure.”

Tony chose that moment to interrupt with an eye roll, saving her from having to come up with an appropriate response. “Let’s put a pin in that for now,” he said, giving T’Challa a meaningful look that meant nothing to Natasha. He then turned back to her, obviously bolstered by T’Challa’s presence. “Let’s get this over with. What do you want?”

She glanced between the two men for a little while, struggling to catch up with things as they stood. King T’Challa was clearly bitter about their last meeting, and while she couldn’t blame him, she also didn’t think it would be wise to point out that his objective at the time had been to become the judge, jury, and executioner of a man who turned out to have been fully innocent of the crime. As Tony said, it would be best to table that discussion for another time.

So she returned her attention to Tony. “You said it yourself, I made the emotional call to help Steve. It was necessary. I didn’t think you, of all people, would fault me for setting reason aside to save someone I care about.”

Tony muttered something that sounded a little like _Jesus Christ, Nat_ , but she interrupted before he could pick up steam.

“You know I don’t believe in the right thing,” she tried again. “We do the best we can, but usually there's no ‘right’ call to make.”

“And you still don’t get it,” Tony snapped. “You sided with me based on reason, and with Steve based on loyalty, right? Did you feel anything about all the lives the Avengers have taken? Don’t you feel any remorse—any sense of any responsibility? Is there seriously no part of you that feels bad that while you and Sam were shooting the shit on comms about how _cute_ Redwing is, Steve was fighting for his life against Rumlow? Or about leaving the only member of the team with no meaningful combat experience to be his only backup? Do you feel even the slightest bit guilty that Rhodey was hurt because _you_ allowed Steve and Barnes to get into the quinjet, _knowing_ that the rest of us _trusted you_ to stop them?

“God, Nat,” Tony shook his head a little, looking haunted. His hand came up unconsciously to press at the base of his chest. “When that jet came out of the hangar, I… I didn’t know what they’d done to you. I’d just had to practically peel you off the tarmac like a piece of old gum. Steve threw a fucking burning oil tanker at Rhodey—and you, let’s not forget—, and Wanda had just buried me under 25 tons of cars. _They weren’t holding back._ They—I didn’t—they could have done _anything_ to you in there. I didn’t understand how they could have gotten past you without—”

He cut off, almost choking, and she felt a lurch in her chest.

“It doesn’t change anything,” she said quickly, trying to cut him off before she lost him entirely. He snorted, angry, and visibly brushed aside the emotional lapse in preparation to retaliate—but she kept talking, leaving him no space. “I said I don’t believe in the right call. I never seem to be able to make it, even when I—. I… made a decision in joining S.H.I.E.L.D., the first hand in my own fate I’d ever been given, and ended up serving fascists for half my adult life because I had too much faith. Don’t think I don’t understand how it feels to have your trust thrown in your face.”

“No, you’re just happy running off and doing _the same thing again_ ,” Tony snarled. “The Avengers weren’t _Nazis_ , but I guess it turned out we weren’t much more than a cult of personality either. First sign of someone trying to make sure we weren’t going to pull a S.H.I.E.L.D. and the entire team tore apart along a line of _loyalty_. Sound _familiar_? So there was our transparency—not Hydra-ugly, but not fucking pretty either.”

“I can’t change the way I am,” she retorted. “But I can try to know who I’m working for. And I refuse to serve under men like Ross.”

“ _Ross_ —” The name burst out of Tony in a fiery crash of anger and frustration—but he bit back whatever was to come after it.

In the brief silence that followed, T’Challa flashed his eyes her way. He looked grave, and very disappointed. “Secretary Ross had no jurisdiction over the Avengers, Ms. Romanoff, under the Accords. It was by leaving them un-ratified thanks to Zemo’s actions in Vienna that you were left vulnerable to the government of the United States, as its citizens. Those who refused to sign the Accords would not have been protected from Ross at all. Mr. Barnes’s situation had nothing to do with them. It becomes clearer to me each day that those who fought against the Accords most strongly were the ones who knew the least about them.”

She allowed a slight scowl onto her face. “I read them, Your Majesty. I made it clear from the start that I believed in them only as far as they let the Avengers stay intact.”

“It was your rogue Avengers’ choice to split your team apart, Ms. Romanoff,” T’Challa returned levelly. “Not the Accords. It is one thing to practice vigilantism when it is the best and only option available—it is another thing entirely to sneer at the chance to protect both yourselves _and_ the people you claim you serve. The Avengers were vigilantes, Ms. Romanoff, and you were killing people by the hundreds. And not just your own citizens, but people all over the world. You must have realized that was not something we could allow forever. By shunning the Accords and continuing on the same path, Captain Rogers made it clear to us all that he does not care for the safety of the people he wishes to protect—that he does not care that people die at the hands of his team, only about his missions.”

“You don’t know anything about Steve,” Natasha snapped at him, furious. She did her best to suppress the wild emotion, but it welled up within her like magma.

“T’Challa…” Tony said in a warning counterpoint.

“Eleven Wakandans were killed by the Scarlet Witch,” T’Challa growled, glaring at her and then leveling Tony with a look almost as harsh. “Eleven of my people, humanitarians on an outreach mission sanctioned personally by my father. One of them was just twenty-two years old. The Accords first arose as an outcry against the deaths in Novi Grad, that is true, but my father and I became involved when _our people_ became collateral damage, and we saw firsthand that the Avengers gave those deaths no heed.”

“That isn’t—” she managed, before he cut her off.

“I’m sure Ms. Maximoff felt remorse,” he said, quelling her with a severe look. “And Captain Rogers. Perhaps you yourself felt some guilt. But nothing changed. There was no apology made by Ms. Maximoff, nor the Captain—”

Natasha’s mind jerked back in time, unbidden, to two days after the disastrous mission in Lagos. Tony and Steve had started shouting at each other yet again, this time about holding a press conference. Steve had flat-out refused to force Wanda to make a statement about the accident with Rumlow, claiming that the press would eat her alive and that she did not deserve it. It had ended up being Tony facing the press and the public once again to give the team’s apologies.

“—and though we waited for several weeks for news that there would be consequences of any kind for those deaths, there was none. My father was _outraged_ at your indifference. He talked about how it was ironic, that a team of so-called ‘avengers’ could care so little for justice over the deaths of those they themselves had killed. There was not a single consequence for those lives taken. And perhaps Ms. Maximoff did the best she could. Certainly she saved all those people down in the bazaar, and I never believed for a moment that she _intended_ harm upon anyone, or anything less than to save as many lives as she could. She made a brave decision to step in. But how could we ever know that she could not have done better when nobody cared to ask the question? She was left unprotected, and look how that ended.”

His eyes were fixed on her. “How much fault did Captain Rogers carry for failing to contain the suspect when he had the chance? How much fault do you carry, Ms. Romanoff, for bringing her on a deadly mission when her training was far from complete? Ms. Maximoff herself was given no justice, no peace. She must carry those deaths with her, forever not knowing if she could have spared them. Their families will forever want for closure, for justice. And without justice blooms the desire for revenge, and hatred. Nobody can win when deadly force is used without accountability.”

“Be careful, Your Majesty,” Natasha said, with a grim smile. “You’re beginning to weaponize us, dehumanize us. That’s Ross's favorite play.”

T’Challa snorted. “Is that so? What term would you prefer I use for Ms. Maximoff’s powers, and her use of them, if ‘deadly force’ is unacceptable?”

“Good god, are you two going to go at it like alley cats all night?” Tony interrupted, feigning exasperation. “But oh, hey, now that we’re back to Ross,” he gave Natasha an eyebrow, “can we all agree that our first priority is to get him out of our hair? Or—oh, excuse me, Your Pantherness—our fur?”

Natasha watched the king step nonchalantly over Tony’s characteristic insolence, and settle a hard look on her. “Secretary Ross is no friend of mine, nor of the Accords.”

“Or the Avengers, or 'enhanced individuals' in general…” Tony continued lazily. “Or—as I apparently need to point out—of me.”

“Ross’s weak point has always been Bruce,” Natasha noted, giving Tony a querulous look. For someone who claimed to be no friend of Ross, Tony certainly had seemed to know him extremely well. Well enough to play him like a violin in Berlin, enough for him to be the point of contact between the Avengers and the head of the State Department personally, despite the fact that he had not been an active member for almost a year at that point.

“And Blonsky,” Tony added, earning himself two interrogative looks. “No? Abomination? Hulk’s _Jurassic Park_ knock-off? The Harlem Shakedown?”

Natasha knew who he meant. She hadn’t remembered the name, but the Hulk’s disastrous match in Harlem with the “giant beige rage monster”—per the official S.H.I.E.L.D. report—was not something anyone who ever flipped on the news was likely to forget. That fight was the reason Bruce had dropped off the public radar for four years before she’d dragged him out of Kolkata. The second creature, codenamed Abomination, had been a point of contention between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Department of Defense from its—his?—appearance in 2008 all the way up to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s downfall in 2014. She presumed that this meant it—he? Blonsky?—was still in government custody.

“He’s probably in the Raft,” Tony mused, then shook his head a little. “I mean, that’s the only super-supermax prison I know of. It has cells theoretically rated for the Hulk, which are a rare luxury.”

“You sound very familiar with it,” Natasha said, the words coming out a little colder than she’d intended.

Tony evidently heard her tone and gave her a dry, irritated look in response. “I know you all seem to think I designed everything the government’s light touches, but for one—uh, no, I’m just one guy and S.I. is just one contractor among many, not to mention the military _does_ have its own competent-ish R &D divisions. And two—actually, two, how the hell you think I had time to design giant Atlantean prisons for the DoD when I was permanently eyeballs-deep in keeping the Avengers and S.I. rolling in new toys is kind of beyond me. Three—obviously I’m familiar with it, since Ross threw three of my supposed teammates in there without a squeak of due process.”

Then he narrowed his eyes at her. “Pretty damn tight security, from what I saw. It’s not something you can just punch your way into. Not exactly top-of-the-line cyber-security, but not Anthem embarrassing either.” There was a brief silence as he allowed the tension to ramp up a little, before delivering his conclusion. “There’s no way everyone’s favorite troglodyte got in and out with four prisoners without outside help.”

T’Challa’s spine went brutally rigid, and Natasha’s stomach dropped. Tony looked slowly, curiously between them. He quickly identified the disbelief on T’Challa’s face, and so he turned back to Natasha with flat, disappointed eyes. “Believe it or not, I’m not even surprised anymore.”

She waited for more, waited for the accusations and railing, waited to be called a traitor and a double-agent and a backstabber, or whatever else he was going to throw at her this time… but Tony said nothing else. T’Challa seemed willing to follow his lead. Or at least he was willing for now. His glare in her direction had certainly gained new depths of disapproval and irritation.

“Ross is going to be a time investment,” Tony said in a clipped tone. “But we’ve got multiple angles on him. It’s just a matter of picking which one to start with.”

“In the meantime,” T’Challa took over smoothly, taking a step backwards to lean against the wall between her and Tony, hands in his jeans pockets. “I have asked Mr. Stark for assistance with Mr. Barnes’s unique situation.”

Natasha’s surprise must have flitted across her face. Tony knew where Steve and the others were sheltering? How could that be? Why had he said nothing? Why was he being so friendly with T’Challa if he knew the truth? Why was he so hostile to her for her role in the Raft breakout, if the man harboring the others had already made his own involvement clear? She was… confused, at a loss, missing vital information and she _hated_ it.

Tony gave her a look, acknowledging her unflattering shock that he was in the know, but said nothing about it. Not a snarky comment to be heard, no teasing to be found over her slip in control. Not even a twinkle in his tired eyes. “Ross has made it pretty clear he’d consider it Christmas come early if Barnes suddenly appeared trussed and blinking on his doorstep. Not that I live to disappoint the great Thaddeus Ross, but I’d really rather that didn’t ever become a reality. Barnes has had enough shit thrown at him during this mess without Ross’s military-misanthrope mustache on top of it. Especially since we all know Barnes isn’t remotely responsible for what happened in Vienna, or much of anything since Operation Spring Awakening.”

Before he’d quite finished speaking, Tony lifted his head to stare Natasha in the eye—and she suddenly saw that _he knew_.

 _He knew_. When had he found out? Had Steve told him? _Why_?

In the same moment, Tony seemed to realize something similar. That she had known, too, and kept silent. His eyes widened slightly with hurt, and a splinter of shock blazed in them before settling into quiet anger. “How long, Nat?”

She wanted to glance at the king, but kept her focus on Tony out of respect. “Since S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. Just before.”

Tony almost staggered at the admission. As it was, he took a slightly unsteady step backward towards his chair, then dropped down into it like his knees wouldn’t permit him to stand a moment more. His left hand came up to cover his mouth, his elbow braced against the desk, while the fingers of his other hand were clenched over his knee. Out of the corner of her eye she saw T’Challa give Tony a glance of concern, then turn his suspicious gaze back on her.

Tony just breathed for a few minutes in their silence. When he did speak, his voice was almost even—but she could hear the catch of emotion clawing at its walls, and she was certain T’Challa could as well. “That makes more sense. I really wanted to believe Barnes told Steve sometime after they eloped in Berlin. Maybe that would explain why they didn’t bother to call me and explain just what the fuck they thought was happening. I really wanted to believe you wouldn’t keep something like that from me. I honestly believed Steve never would.” He looked up at her, and all the emotion that wasn’t in his voice was wavering in the brightness of his eyes. “It wasn’t in the file dump.”

She swallowed, buying herself a moment before she had to address him. “There were mentions of it, but no, no mission report. From what Steve and I pieced together, Hydra loaned the Soldier and other assets out to the Red Room to help bring down the U.S.S.R. Any record of his missions from that time would have to be in a Soviet base.”

Tony’s eyes widened, then his eyes dropped to the side. Thinking. Piecing together.

It would be easier if she volunteered the conclusion. “I was active with the Red Room throughout the 90s,” she pointed out quietly. “Girls just like me were running ops like that almost every week from April ‘86 to December ‘91. It wasn’t our choice. You know that. You know they raised us that way, they used us.” She fell briefly quiet, remembering some of the contents of the file on the Зимний Солдат she’d acquired for Steve. “What they did to him was far worse than just raising him to be blindly loyal.”

“Really?” Tony snapped. “No really, please continue. I had _no idea_ of any of this.”

His tone was awful, but she couldn’t quite place it. His face was unreadable, even to her. “Tony,” she said quietly. “You know it wasn’t his fault.”

Tony stared at her for a long while, maintaining his blank expression. She only hoped she’d said enough to convince him. She hoped he hadn’t done anything reckless when he’d first learned the truth. She had to wonder—why now, of all times? Why had Steve chosen to tell Tony _now_? Or had Barnes let it slip? She knew the three of them had been to Siberia to disable the Red Room’s fourth and final batch of copycat Soldiers—the only successes aside from Barnes, if her recent digging was to be trusted—but she hadn’t actually spoken to Steve since the hangar in Leipzig. She’d been too… hurt, too upset, to do more than provide him with a means to access the Raft’s blueprints and security systems.

“Unlike your pet project,” Tony eventually began, his voice completely flat this time. “I intend to place the blame for my parents’ deaths where it belongs. Believe me, I know the weapons aren’t to blame for the crimes they commit. So this doesn’t change anything, does it? I assume you already razed the ground where the Red Room used to be. Hydra’s a Sisyphean nightmare. Barring another Sokovian nutcase with a lot of know-how, there’s nobody left with their finger on that particular trigger. And speaking of Sokovians with severe mental health issues…”

“You can do what you want with her,” Natasha cut in quickly, in case Tony decided to paint them both with the same brush. “She’s hardly a friend to me.” Her hand went consciously to her hip, where the bone was still healing from the hairline fracture Wanda had given her, throwing her onto the concrete as if she were a doll. Her armored, shielded suit was what had kept it from being a more severe fracture, or perhaps even a full break. With the way it’d had her in such pain, struggling not to limp when around anybody else and taking painkillers as often as she could no longer stand it, she almost preferred when Wanda had invaded her mind and helped her remember parts of her past she had long-since buried. Her childhood before the Red Room, snippets of laughter and real love. Her parents. She’d hunted down their graves already, and this only gave her more pain to carry—but it was alright. This was a human pain.

“Did Helen tell you what she found out about the effects of Wanda’s mind-melding?” Tony asked out of nowhere, as if he too had developed the ability to read her mind. “From the scans she took after we got back from Sokovia? It fires up the amygdala—center of emotional memory, and fear. That’s what had you all dead on your feet in Joburg. Worst fears and whatever negative emotion you were most susceptible to, Helen guesses, based on Hulk’s rage, Cap’s depression, your thousand-yard stare, and… I have no idea what was going on in Thor’s head, but he wasn’t as out of it as the rest of you were. Maybe his physiology is different enough it affected him some other way. He didn’t stick around for his brain scan, anyway. Realms to rule, lawns to rune. Get it, rune?”

Natasha just watched him. Waiting for the relevance. Tony usually got there eventually, if you were willing to listen.

“And don’t shoot the messenger, but Helen tells me women use their left amygdala more than their right, which means they have more intense emotional memory than men. I mean, nobody’s surprised to hear that, but it might explain why you were hit so much harder than the rest of us. Thing is,” he continued, leaning back in his chair but still not looking at her. “Helen took new scans almost a year after that, and none of them were quite back to normal. Long-lasting neurological effects. Surprise. Whatever you saw had you obsessed with making us your new family, Thor split for Asgard, Steve took about fifty steps backwards in his acclimation to the future.”

She stayed very still, absorbing that information. It actually made a startling amount of sense. The sudden, consuming desire to understand her past. To clutch her new family to her and never let them go. Her suddenly recurring dreams about the Red Room. The resurfaced mourning for the child she’d never been given the chance to even wonder about… at Clint’s farm she had _cried_ over the procedure, an event nineteen years in the past. She hadn’t cried over it in all those years, apart from a brief moment when Clint had first brought her to S.H.I.E.L.D. A brief moment when the conditioning was really starting to wear off, but she’d had yet to leap the gap between her old self and the new.

Her hands clenched in the fabric of her jacket, down beside her hips. Slowly, carefully, she stepped over to one of the chairs arranged in front of Tony’s desk and sank into it.

Steve, too… Tony was right that it was after Ultron he’d seemed to regress. He was more likely after that to avoid the team, rather than actively seeking them out and drawing them together, as he’d been doing more and more since they’d all moved into the Tower. More likely to go quiet and stern instead of arguing and making his opinions very loud and very clear. He was far more likely to be found with Peggy, whereas before Ultron they’d appeared to have made their peace, and he’d seemed willing to let her go. Her children—Andrew, Steve had mentioned in particular—had made it very clear that his visits were only doing Peggy harm in the long run. That she was getting more and more confused the more Steve visited her. The more he made her question not only the year, but her _entire life_ for the past seven decades, starting from the moment he had died while she futilely called for him over the radio. Steve had agreed to step back out of respect—and, certainly, love—for the woman he had known.

But after Sokovia, the visits had resumed. Eventually, Peggy’s family had moved her back to England, not terribly subtly putting her far out of Steve’s easy grasp. Seven months later, she had died in her sleep, and Andrew had shot Steve a cursory text.

Natasha had simply never connected Steve’s sudden relapse with whatever Wanda had made him see in South Africa.

She felt the questioning stares of both men on her, and she finally looked back up. One glance at T’Challa, and then a longer gaze for Tony. “I don’t want your help,” she admitted softly. She still saw him flinch a little, perhaps just a twitch of his fingers, but she continued anyway. “Tony, I want to come home.”

The room was silent for a long while. Tony stared down at the mirrored black surface of his desk. T’Challa removed his hands from his pockets to fold his arms.

“I knew they would come for us,” Tony said eventually. “I plan for the future, Nat. I look for clues, and if there aren’t any I lay some down. The Accords were never going to be viable—not like that, not shoved down everyone’s throats because they were terrified and furious over what had happened in Lagos. All we had to do was tally their failures. I mean, starting with that ‘active-duty non-combatant’ bullshit, that almost certainly led to the Winter Soldier’s successful escape. So we amend the law where issues crop up. It’s how these things work. It’s why the Accords were necessary in the first place, or something like them. But I _knew_ that. And I think you did too. We’d had a good run out on our own, but it wouldn’t last forever.”

“Nothing lasts forever,” she said, voice subdued. Just letting him know she was listening, and that she understood.

“Steve is too attached to the present. To the status quo. He hates change unless it was his idea—I didn’t miss that he flat-out refused to move into the Tower when I invited him, but he came skipping over pretty happily with his sad little duffel and his new bird-friend once S.H.I.E.L.D. went sailing down the tubes. After a seventy-year nap it kind of makes sense he wouldn’t want more things to change, I guess. I see what needs improving, Rip Van Winkle only sees what works and what doesn’t, what to use and what to avoid. He reacts, he makes one decision at a time. I can’t do that… I can’t help thinking ten steps into the future. I thought you were more on my side of the line, but I guess I was wrong.”

His voice dropped a little colder. “You two couldn’t even trust me to get Clint and Sam out of the Raft. You couldn’t even wait _two weeks_. Ross had illegally detained three U.S. citizens and a foreign national in a secret prison! We decided to go the legal route so we could shove it up Ross’s ass later on, but God, Nat—all I had to do was go to the media and they’d have been released before you could say _unconstitutional_. We could have had them under house arrest in the Compound, that’s one of the provisos the Accords explicitly point out. They were thrown in the Raft in the first place—Clint, Sam, and Lang, anyway, helpless little baseline humans that they are—because everyone was afraid they’d flee justice!” His voice was getting steadily raspier and louder. “Well, guess what! Now Steve’s broken them out… every time people think they have a worst fear about us, we just keep proving that we’re _always_ worse than than they feared in the _fucking first place_!”

With that, Tony shot up out of his seat, straightened his shirt and tie almost absently, and stormed past both of them out the door without another word.

T’Challa was glaring at her again.

“I think it’d be pretty hypocritical of you if you’re angry with me for helping Steve,” Natasha pointed out into the uncomfortable silence.

The king’s irritation only grew. “Is that so.”

“Well,” she said carefully, leaning forward in her seat. “I may have given him the key, but you’ve given him a home base.”

T’Challa scoffed at her yet again. “When Captain Rogers requested my assistance in breaking his compatriots out of the Raft, I did my best to dissuade him. There was nothing to be gained from doing so that could not have been attained through legal means, if only he were willing to be patient. But I have since come to realize that patience is one of the qualities the Captain lacks most conspicuously.” He tilted his head at her slightly. “I permitted him to take his stolen jet, and I fully expected that his lone assault on the U.S. Navy-guarded supermaximum prison would be little more than an elaborate flight into Secretary Ross’s arms.” Now his look of contempt returned in full. “I did not anticipate your interference. Perhaps I should assume it as a default from this point on.”

Her jaw clenched as she looked up at him. “You sent him off to be captured.”

“He left of his own free will. I believe I have already mentioned that I tried to convince him of his mistake. Since I am certain you did not contact him while he was in my palace, I can only guess that he left Wakanda with no plan and no way of knowing what awaited him on the Raft. Until you so foolishly stepped in.”

“I know what Ross is capable of,” she snapped. “My best friend was in there, my friends. I couldn’t risk them staying in Ross’s clutches any longer than necessary.”

“Tony was right, of course,” T’Challa mused, irritation gone from his face. Instead, he looked at her with something that might one day have flowered with pity. “Even you cannot see more than a step or two into the future. It is no wonder you treat him with such disdain. Almost everything I have heard the Captain say about him has already turned out to be incorrect. How wrongly have you also estimated your former teammate, I wonder?”

“Tell me Steve is safe with you,” she grit out, not rising to the bait this time.

“I will tell you no such thing,” he said calmly, all but daring her to take issue with him. “Captain Rogers has already placed me in an exceptionally difficult position by abusing my offer of sanctuary. With your assistance. I certainly was not anticipating his successful return with four new fugitives to shelter and feed. I was tempted to simply turn him away, Ms. Romanoff, and then where would any of them be? Captain Rogers and his rogues are not under my protection. They are under my watch.”

She sucked in a breath, shocked at how far off she had been when guessing at T’Challa’s motivations. His sudden change of heart over Barnes made sense since he’d apparently discovered the truth about his father’s death, but to think that he’d taken Steve and the others in only so that he would have power over them in the inevitable upcoming fight… it had not occurred to her. Steve was no madman who needed to be controlled, he was not a pawn to be shuffled across the board at will. Surely Steve wouldn’t allow himself to be trapped in Wakanda, having escaped becoming trapped in the United States, or Germany, Romania, Nigeria, Sokovia—any one of the countries calling for his head? Did Steve not realize that the king was by no means on his side? That he had simply traded one enemy for another? Traded their imprisonment in the Raft for imprisonment in a palace?

While she reeled, T’Challa gave a little shake of his head and turned his back on her to exit the room. “FRIDAY,” she heard him say from outside the door. “Would you please tell me where I can find Tony?”

“Boss is in the common room, Your Majesty,” she heard FRIDAY reply faintly.

Once T’Challa’s footsteps had disappeared out of range, Natasha jumped to her feet and strode to follow him and Tony. She was not ready to let this discussion end.

She had only taken three steps outside the door when she spotted them. Two set of eyes watching her—so still, as if embedded in statues in the hallway, glowing with purpose and threat. Two members of T’Challa’s personal protection detail, but they were women she had not met before, if they had been with him in Berlin. Both glared at her with unspoken warning. She set her jaw and walked determinedly past them, winding her way through the building until she emerged by the kitchen.

And there she froze entirely solid for at least a few seconds, struggling to process the sight of an enormous hole bored through the floor between the common area and the conference room.

“Oh, right, sorry about the mess,” she heard Tony’s voice say in forced cheer. “I just can’t find the time to put a band-aid over that thing, what with all that’s been going on.”

Natasha didn’t have to ask. _Wanda_. It seemed she'd taken violent exception to her confinement to the Compound, just as Tony had feared. Only, his plan to try to keep it quiet until the worst of the storm had blown over clearly hadn’t worked either. Would things have been different if he’d simply been honest with her? Knowing Wanda—perhaps knowing Wanda now well enough to never be comfortable around her again—, Natasha was hard-pressed to answer. Would she have simply fled sooner, childish and petty in her hatred of Tony, if he had told her outright that she shouldn’t leave this place?

The jagged hole was the size of Vision, Natasha guessed. The last evidence of what must have been a spectacularly ruthless attack, if it was able to subdue him long enough for Wanda and Clint to flee the country.

She swallowed tightly. Natasha did not appreciate being made to feel such fear. She wondered sometimes if Wanda did these things to prove to the world how powerful an enemy she would be if they chose to cross her—and yet other times she came to the rather more frightening conclusion that Wanda was simply incapable of considering the consequences of her actions. Or, perhaps, of caring about those consequences, if she did ever think about them at all. Natasha had consciously given the woman a chance to redeem herself, because how could she not? Nobody could have been less deserving of it than the Black Widow, and yet here she was.

Here she was, but now she had to add “witches” to her gods and aliens and Inhumans and Mutants and monsters, and the list just kept growing. Enemies that—for the first time in her lifelong career—Natasha was not able to defeat. She had never met an enemy she could not fight, frighten, or fuck into submission before she joined the Avengers. Her body and her brain had _always_ been enough. But then there was Thor, and there was _Bruce_. Even Captain America she could wrestle down if need be, and even the Iron Man armor wasn’t entirely beyond her ability to disable. Tony himself would always be the most vulnerable of them all, if she chose to turn on him. Thor was something of a question mark, even if his brother had been pitifully easy to manipulate—but Bruce Banner was a constant, glaring red _X_ in the column flanking her field of vision. Almost boundless self-control, bolstered with a constant wariness of being manipulated in any way.

Never before in her life had Natasha felt terror like that which had seeped into her veins, into her very cells and marrow, when the Hulk chased her through the underbelly of the helicarrier. She—Natasha Romanoff—the feared Black Widow—had been reduced to a quivering mass of useless limbs and dripping sweat, huddled like a child beneath the first piece of machinery she could find. Never before had she felt so fathomlessly _helpless_. The Hulk was not to be seduced with a pretty face or pretty words, and he would not be intimidated by anything she could throw at him. What had he to fear from her? Her physical strength was worthless against his own—he, a solid slab of muscle with a mass she couldn’t even hope to use against him. And even the most cunning machinations of her mind could only hope to delay him. Not destroy him, not deter him, never to truly defend herself against him.

He was her black hole, her infinite mass, the one thing she hadn’t a prayer of resisting.

So she tried to undercut the Hulk, with all his strength and power. Maneuver herself into the world of Bruce Banner, seduce her way slowly into his gentle heart, with the faint hope that perhaps that could save her from the brutality of his alter-ego. She went in deep, so deep into the role and the friendship and the mark that the lines blurred. Bruce was a good man, and under different circumstances she could truly have believed she could love him one day. But he was not Bruce alone. She could not allow him to have any real parts of herself, not the parts that mattered, because he was still her black hole—inside his haplessness and intelligence lay everything Natasha feared, everything that could destroy her before she could think to flee. She hadn’t tried to chase Bruce away, but she wasn’t agonizing over his loss, either. For a moment or two, in quiet times, she had hoped he’d felt the potential that she did. For a moment or two, she’d even regretted how things had played out. But clearly the Hulk knew that she was not to be trusted, and after over a year of absence, it was clear that Bruce was never going to be able to give her the real parts of himself he’d been holding back, either.

But just as soon as the constant fear the Hulk presented fled from the team, another took his place. And this one was far more insidious.

Not only could Natasha not hope to match her with any weapon but that of surprise, but Wanda had the same power over her that the Red Room had held all those years. The power to take her mind away from her. Whatever fear Natasha had felt for the Hulk, every scrap of it was magnified past the physical world, where she had any measure of control, and settled twofold in her heart each time she looked at Wanda Maximoff. What could she do but try again what she had attempted with the Hulk? She treated Wanda well, too well: perhaps far better than she deserved. Wanda was lost, and young, and retained a sad, twisted sort of idealism, but she wasn’t a bad person. But not being a bad person did not mean she should get to flee from her heinous decisions and mistakes like Natasha and Steve had allowed her to. They had concealed her role in Ultron’s plan, and in the attacks on both the team and the city in Johannesburg—misguided, perhaps, but done out of the hope that she could redeem herself many times over with the Avengers. 

Had they only permitted her to grow into the type of person who would viciously assault the one person on the team who cared about her the most? Or had they merely refused to see that she had been that vindictive woman all along, and stayed out of her way like cowards?

“Don’t puke in my sink,” Tony warned her, and it snapped her abruptly from her trance.

She realized her eyes were still fixed on the hole in the floor, and she lifted them steadily to Tony’s. He was lying on the couch nearest the island, his suit starkly black and white against the dull orange upholstery. Her stomach clenched when she recognized how he’d been lying in that exact same place, wearing almost the exact same clothing with his feet tucked companionably up against her, on the day everything had started to crumble around them. Now she didn’t want to find out what would happen if she took the same seat again, so she sunk down where Vision had been that day. Opposite her, settling in her old place by Tony’s side, T’Challa was watching her intently. He seemed ever so slightly amused.

“Tony,” she began, trying her best to slough off the dead skins and masks that Tony had always been so adept at seeing through. “You were the only one who trusted me.” _And I betrayed that trust_ , she let him hear, silently. _I know what that means. I know what I did to you._ “Steve called me when he arrived at the International Centre, and I warned him to stay out of it. That was the last time I could get through. I must have called him and Sam fifty times after they disappeared in Berlin. I know you and Rhodes were trying, too.” She dropped her gaze, and it was only partially for effect. Another part of her was simply overcome, just for a moment, with remembered hurt and frustration. “I called Clint’s cell after meeting with T’Challa. Laura answered the third time, asking me where he was. They were meant to go to Caesar Creek that afternoon, with the kids. He’d left a note on their bed.”

After the fight in Germany, while Natasha was sitting like an ice sculpture in the quinjet she’d been tasked to fly back to the U.S., before T’Challa had told Ross of her betrayal and she’d had to run, Laura had called her. Furious. Frantic. Demanding to know where her husband was, and _what the hell they were all doing_ blowing each other up while she and her children listened to the newscasters’ reports in horror. The elder two were almost in tears—asking her why their daddy would want to hurt Iron Man or Auntie Nat, while Natasha could hear Nate just wailing as everyone around him got more and more worked up.

Natasha hadn’t know what to tell her. That they’d been having an ideological disagreement about a new piece of legislation, and now Clint was helping Steve flee the country with a suspected terrorist and wanted assassin? That Clint was currently in a holding cell in the Joint Counter-Terrorism Center in Berlin, awaiting a decision from the C.I.A. and the German feds over who had the rights to him, Wanda, Sam, and Lang? That Clint wasn’t going to be coming home for a _very_ long time? That he wouldn’t be there for Nate’s second birthday, or Thanksgiving, or Christmas—that, in fact, Natasha didn’t know if he would ever be able to come home? 

Laura had been S.H.I.E.L.D. before, briefly, and Army before that: before the injury and the honorable discharge. Before Clint and their babies, before a secret life in an Ohio farmhouse—married to a spy in every way but legally, so that his enemies didn’t ever come hunting for her and her children. She didn’t ask Natasha when Clint would be coming home. She knew. She wanted to know if Natasha had been trying to prevent Clint and Cap from saving the world, or if Clint had left her and their children over _nothing_. Who was the villain, and who the hero? Natasha had just had to tell her that Clint was trying to save the world, as always. (Now she was not so sure it was the truth.)

Then Laura had asked about Colonel Rhodes. If Tony was okay. It was the first time Natasha had even considered the question. She hadn’t known what had actually happened to injure Rhodes until Laura’s call. It was then she knew she had to go back to the Compound one last time.

From across the chessboard between them, Tony snorted lightly at her confession. He was staring up at the LEDs latticed across the ceiling. “Sure feels good when nobody trusts you enough to give you a phone call when they need help, right? Turnabout is a bitch—Mr. and Mrs. Steve-Rogers-won’t-call-the-technological-wunderkind-who’d-made-damn-sure-he-was-on-both-of-their-speed-dials-even-when-it-turned-out-Hydra-was-going-to-use-three-helicarriers-that-very-wunderkind-helped-design-to-kill-millions-of-people-in-a-few-hours. I guess that’s a bit of a mouthful. Wouldn’t fit on a marriage certificate.”

“Tony,” she warned softly.

He cut back in before she could say more. “No please, Nat, tell me all the amazing reasons you and Steve had for not shooting me a call or a text or a damn rock tossed through the window. Explain to me why you chose to personally get over a hundred clean S.H.I.E.L.D. agents _killed_ by dumping all their secret files onto the internet for every psychopath and unfriendly on the entire planet to browse. And that was _with_ me and J doing damage control. Maybe you can tell me why that was a better choice than… God forbid, _asking me for help_?” His voice was getting heated, though he hadn’t so much as glanced away from the ceiling. His arms were crossed over his chest, and she could see his hands snatching at the delicate fabric of his dress shirt. “If you have anything other than ‘you might have been Hydra,’ that is, because if you seriously thought that for one second you can get the fuck out of my building and never come near me again—did you only move into the Tower to keep an eye on me in case I started spouting fascist rhetoric, or—?”

Tony stopped abruptly. When Natasha looked down in surprise, she saw that T’Challa had placed his hand on Tony’s knee, the one resting just behind his hip. She watched in mild astonishment as Tony closed his eyes and appeared to gather himself back from wherever the flayed strips of him had been lying for over two years, since the disaster that he clearly considered her first great betrayal of his trust.

He must have seen from her data release that he’d been one of Insight’s intended targets. And that he would almost certainly have been killed in his own home before he even knew what was happening—before JARVIS could so much as say his name—if Steve had been just three tenths of a second slower with that final targeting blade. And he must have realized that Natasha and Steve had known he was in danger, and yet they had chosen not to say a single word in warning. Just in case he betrayed them, they decided to betray him first and gamble with his life. With the lives of every single one of the one million Phase One targets selected by Zola’s algorithm. The numbers game was Natasha’s world, Tony’s world. But it had never been Steve’s—so they’d all believed.

Had that been the first crack in Tony’s faith in Steve? The first strike of mistrust, which would grow into the chasm of silence that birthed Ultron not a year later?

And Natasha herself hadn’t trusted Tony with it. S.H.I.E.L.D. had long since determined that Tony Stark was not to be trusted with missions like these. Fury himself had decided the targeting blades were the best option, and Natasha was not about to question him when he had alone smelled a rat in their ship—while she had blithely worked with entire squads of diseased fleas for years without suspecting a thing. If Fury and Hill didn’t consider Tony an option, then Tony would not be involved.

But now, considering how close they had come to losing everything, milliseconds between them and a million deaths, and knowing Tony as a person as well as she did now—rather than as just a dangerously erratic mark or a flying tank watching her back—, Natasha didn’t think her own reasoning would stand for a moment. Tony Stark, loyal to Hydra? The idea that had seemed so worryingly plausible two years ago was now simply laughable. Tony Stark, unwilling to throw his boundless socio-political, economic, and technological weight behind her in any fight? Until she’d heard the extent of Rhodes’s injuries, she hadn’t thought it would ever be possible.

Oh, but she had heard the extent. And she had realized the magnitude of what she’d done when she’d chosen Steve over her mission. From somewhere deep inside her she’d dredged up the faint hope that Tony could forgive her, that they would not be thrown back beyond square one into the negative zone of their relationship. That hope had wilted in the short time since she’d arrived back at the Compound, for the first time since she’d stormed out on a man sick with worry and heartbreak over his oldest friend: a man maimed as a result of her actions, her choices. And she’d had one final blade, one final accusation of egomania to push into his chest before she abandoned him once more. Left him to fight in Siberia without her backup against Zemo, the Soldiers, and whatever other traps he’d had awaiting them.

Steve and Bucky clearly hadn’t been enough to defend him, and T’Challa must have been occupied with detaining Zemo himself. From this distance she could see the slowly healing wounds on Tony’s forehead and cheekbone. She’d already seen him curling ever so slightly around his chest, and she wondered what other injuries he’d sustained in Siberia that she didn’t know about, ones he wouldn’t let her see.

T’Challa’s hand shifted on Tony’s leg, catching her attention from where it had wandered. The king wrapped his fingers as far around the wide part Tony’s calf as they would go, and Natasha could see the force of his grip in the fabric of Tony’s suit. The hold seemed stabilizing, and Tony sighed.

“When the law falls short, we change the law,” Tony said abruptly, still gazing up at the ceiling. “It’s not easy. Actually it’s fucking dirty and soul-destroying. I have more black marks on this soul of mine from trying to make the world a better place than from trying to design the most efficient murder weapons in human history. But we can’t just throw our hands up and descend into lawlessness whenever something doesn’t turn out the way we expected. Your argument was that we shouldn’t bother trying to stop Steve from breaking the law because he wasn’t going to stop on his own, and bad things might happen if we stepped in again. Then you told me that if I kept trying to stop him, Rhodey would be the one who got off easy. So you knew then, you realized that Steve would do anything to protect Barnes, up to and including murder. He blew past permanent disability without batting an eye. All things considered, a forced leave of absence in sunny Birnin Zana with his entourage isn’t so bad for him.”

 _For him,_ she heard, _while we have to wade on every day through the wreckage he left of our lives._

She didn’t miss the way T’Challa’s hand tightened on Tony’s leg when he mentioned his “guests.” It wasn’t a rebuke, or a warning, but rather it seemed to be a reflection of the young king’s internal debate. He had admitted to her that he almost hadn’t allowed Steve and the others back into his country once they’d fled the Raft. She wondered if he now regretted the decision he’d made, and wondered why he’d made it at all.

“You and I both know Steve is fucked up,” Tony took up on a new tangent, seeming too overwhelmed with the reminder of his dearest friend’s injury to continue the previous one. “And getting worse. I tried to help, but naturally he doesn’t want to hear it. Especially from me. So I backed off. I didn’t think you and Sam would just leave him to muddle through, though. What the hell, Nat?—No, never mind. I don’t care what you thought you were doing. What you were actually doing was enabling the shit out of him. You guys with your grudge missions against the S.H.I.E.L.D./Hydra survivors and your _Where’s Waldo?_ world tours… do you know Steve left the Compound exactly twenty-seven times in the last year?”

Natasha winced—she had suspected, but hadn’t realized how low the number really was. Tony continued, “Eighteen of those were missions with the Dream Team. Two were trips to England, three guesses why. Five were off-campus meetings with government officials. The last two are unknowns, but one lasted five hours and the other lasted three.” His face looked haunted, tired. Worried over a man who had abandoned him to both of their demons. “I’m no psychological über-agent, or whatever the hell patch S.H.I.E.L.D. gave you field guys that made you experts in psychological profiling, but that doesn’t sound like a man who’s doing so well. I was doing my best to leave you to it, focus on S.I. and keep my relationship with Pepper afloat. What the hell were the rest of you doing while Steve was being beaten back ceaselessly into the past right under your damn noses?”

“You’re right,” she said loudly, needing him to stop. His wide, sarcastic eyes were not flattering, nor was T’Challa’s skeptical look, but they both remained quiet. “I failed Steve. I should have pushed harder. I was… I didn’t want to rock the boat, and it ended up capsizing anyway.”

_Tony, my friend, if you let me think of you that way still… I was terrified of losing my family. They were all I had left. The organization I signed away my life to when I fled the K.G.B. turned out to be the K.G.B.’s great-uncle wearing an eagle mask, and I turned out to be one of the worst spies in the world for not seeing through it. A third of all the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents I’d ever met or even heard of turned out to be Hydra, traitors to my homeland and my adopted country both. I’d known Jasper Sitwell for nine years. Phil was already gone: my handler and mentor and confidant and voice of God, whether on the field or off. Nick was in the wind, and I hadn’t realized how much I’d let my world focus and center on him until he left me adrift, with Tony Stark as my only life-raft: a man for whom I felt little but disdain and impatience, with a small seed of grudging respect for his bravery in Manhattan as our only speck of hope._

_And Clint… my brother, my shield, my partner, my friend, my rescuer, my constant for fourteen years… he was done with my life and he’d left to pursue a new one without us in the picture. Without me. While I knew that I would_ never _be able to leave._

“I believed Steve knew what he was doing,” she admitted. “I don’t know what he knew, or what Barnes had told him to make him so desperate, but the man I knew wouldn’t do half the things he’d done by Leipzig if there wasn’t a good reason.”

“You did not trust him fully, Ms. Romanoff,” T’Challa cut in steadily. “You were the one who suggested to myself and Commander Ross to keep eyes on Agent Carter.”

That too had been her trust in Steve, though nobody knew of it but her—but there also lay her great miscalculation. She hadn’t realized Steve needed to leave the country to act on whatever intelligence he had gathered, or she would have played it very differently. All she’d planned was to follow the trackers she’d planted in their uniforms during processing, and once she’d shaken any watchdogs she could join them and give them backup without alerting either of the Rosses to their whereabouts. Instead, she’d had to remain behind and ensure T’Challa couldn’t interfere, then watch uselessly as their trackers flew further and further east…

“I saw the way Sharon acted around Steve,” she agreed, shaking off her ruminations. “I’d seen that look before. Careful, calm, but willing. I knew she was more on Steve’s side than ours even then. I’m sure she was the one who told him they’d found Barnes in Bucharest.” T’Challa and Tony exchanged a look, and she wondered how that fit into whatever plans they were clearly building around Sharon’s crimes. Her mouth set grimly, and she made deliberate eye contact with each man as she continued, relieved that Tony was apparently able to look her in the face once more. “Sharon committed the same offense as me, and even Peggy Carter. She risked her career, perhaps her entire future, on Steve. On Steve’s judgment. They had faith in him. I had faith in Steve, I believed he was everything he acted like for all the years I’ve known him. But I didn’t account for his greatest weakness—one mention of Barnes’s name and he turns into a blind man with a one-track mind. It almost got him killed in D.C., and again in Lagos. Now it’s gotten him in exile, an international fugitive—” 

She had to stop, regroup. Her audience remained silent and still, listening. After a moment of quiet, she continued. “I wanted to follow him when he ran away from the consequences of his actions. But I made a vow under oath, after S.H.I.E.L.D. I said that if the government wanted to arrest me, they knew where to find me. So I’m here, now.” She swallowed faintly, feeling an odd sense of relief at allowing Tony and T’Challa to see an honest reaction. It felt like an achievement. A step. “I won’t run. I want to help. My ledger is still red, and I know I’m better here. With the Avengers.

“… Tony,” she said softly, asking for his gaze. “I could never do half as much good out there as I can by your side.”

Tony did look at her, and so she could watch his struggle, the confusion raging within him and wavering in his bright eyes. He wanted to forgive her. He knew she was useful. He missed her. He too mourned their family, all the tentative bonds they’d been so cautiously tending. He was tired, he was hurt. He needed help. He wanted her help. He trusted her. He could never trust her again. He wanted to start repairing all the damage they’d suffered. He didn’t even know where to begin. He didn’t know if he had a place for her anymore. He craved her familiarity in a world twisted out of his grasp. He could tell she was making an effort. He was terrified she would revert to type and leave him so broken this time he would truly never recover.

Her eyes were drawn once more to T’Challa’s hand, still on Tony’s leg but no longer gripping. It rested there as a weight, a reminder. A simple comfort.

His file had told her Tony disliked touch long before she’d been able to corroborate the assessment for herself. He permitted it mostly when he was utterly drunk, and then only by attractive women who were good prospects for a casual sexual encounter. Its cause was a clinical determination: all reports indicated that Howard Stark had not been an affectionate man, not even with his wife and son, and Maria Stark herself was a prim socialite by trade, if one who had been softened by motherhood to the point of giving her only child easy kisses and affectionate brushes of her hand by the time she had been killed in a tragic car accident.

The Starks were not killed in a tragic accident. And Tony Stark did not dislike touch. Natasha had seen him interact with Pepper in quiet moments, enough to extrapolate onto private ones. She had seen Pepper rest a hand in his hair for a brief moment, and the way Tony’s body would be soothed for hours afterward, no matter how tense or upset he’d been. She had seen his hands tap cheekily on Pepper’s hips or arms, communicating with her in a subtle shorthand that indicated a much deeper language, one developed only when they were alone together. Rhodes was one of the least affectionate people Natasha currently knew, and even he deliberately used little touches, physical cues to help Tony cope or just function that little bit better.

Natasha did not remember hugs as a child, and she had always been very careful not to touch outside of a mission, because she knew that the purpose of touch was to manipulate and influence in a way that words and actions could just never replicate. When she touched, it was because she had nothing more, nothing better to give.

She was drawn from her contemplation when Tony finally spoke. “I’d rather be alone than on another ‘team’ full of people who don’t trust me as far as they can throw me. And most of them are goddamn superhumans who can throw me half-way across the state if I say something they don’t like.” He wriggled a little on the couch, then levered himself up carefully so that he could sit on the very edge of the cushion, right beside T’Challa. The stunted way he moved confirmed her suspicions: that he had been injured with more than just the sprained shoulder from Leipzig. Despite the well-hidden discomfort, his stare was serious and determined. “I’m done with people saying they’re my friends and then dancing around and shooting me in the back. I got enough of that bullshit in college for a lifetime—I sure as shit don’t need it now. By my count, the only friends I had in the Avengers were the ones I’d already made. In Vision’s case, I mean that very literally.” 

Then he quirked an eyebrow at her: in one simple motion challenging her to go all in, right now, here… or just get out. 

So Natasha weighed, and she judged, and she’d already decided. “Coulson wrote your report based on my field assessment and his own observations. Iron Man was recommended for the Avengers Initiative because he had proven himself useful in extreme combat scenarios. But Tony Stark—” She paused, then decided bluntness would make her point far more clearly than simply reciting Coulson’s conclusions. “— _you_ were deemed unsuitable for any other scenario. In non-combat situations you had proven yourself to be unable to deal with the threat of death, almost entirely unwilling or unable to work with others, and unwilling to take orders you disagreed with. You were not suitable for an agency that depended on reliability, a cool head under any danger, and a strict chain of command.”

She paused, pursing her lips. Tony was staring at her almost comically, and she realized she could be blunter still. “S.H.I.E.L.D. demanded loyalty. You couldn’t be trusted to give it. It was determined that your interactions with S.H.I.E.L.D. should be limited to the bare minimum. If you were given any clearance higher than that of an outside consultant, Coulson felt you could be a threat to the agency and/or its interests.”

A small, wan smile pulled at her mouth when she remembered how embarrassingly quickly and easily he’d broken into the helicarrier’s mainframe the first time they’d called him in from the outside—the devastating secrets he’d uncovered in less than half an hour of intermittent work. Hill had been _livid_ , and Nick about as visibly irritated and concerned as she’d ever seen him. Not least because they’d only discovered Tony’s unauthorized access because he’d deliberately allowed them to, once he’d gathered enough information to interrogate Nick over, enough to force the director to come up to the lab and confront him. He’d played them like puppets, and in any other situation Natasha would have found it entertaining.

The room was utterly silent. She felt the absence of Tony’s presence like a void, as though he were so deep in shock he’d retreated to another plane of existence. His eyes were wide, but hardly even seeing. He stared right past her, unfocused. T’Challa clearly knew he was missing specifics, but she’d said enough to make it clear what they were talking about. He looked wry, as though everything she’d said about S.H.I.E.L.D.’s policies—and their treatment of Tony—made perfect sense. She supposed he was thinking about the fact that, of the original Avengers lineup present to worry about the Accords, it was only the man who S.H.I.E.L.D. had rejected for not being unquestioningly loyal to their authority to have been in support of the accountability measures. Even she had only supported them on paper, and T’Challa must have easily deduced that from her actions.

So she had reverted to blind loyalty, the default she’d been programmed with since she was five years old, when it came to Steve—and look what it had gotten her. She’d lost her entire family, her home. Once upon a past self, she would have accepted that loss and moved on. After S.H.I.E.L.D. fell she’d tried for months to develop new identities and covers that didn’t rely on the agency, but she’d felt lost no matter which direction she headed in. Incomplete in a way she never had before. She didn’t _want_ to leave. She didn’t want to leave the Avengers, leave Clint, leave Steve. So she came back, found Hill working in S.I., and worked with her to bring back the Avengers and reboot them under Tony’s roof. She’d found a place to truly belong, and she found herself _wanting_ to settle in it. Found herself unwilling to give it up, let alone allow anyone to pry her family from her grip.

When she’d thrown her lot in with Steve, she’d thrown away the remains of that family she'd tried so hard to protect. Steve had already caused enough damage that he and anyone following him were beyond her redemption. And she’d tossed what was left after them when she’d chosen her loyalty to Steve over her gut. Hadn’t she learned by now that her unwillingness to take a firm stance only ended up with her being used and hurt? She hoped she had. She hoped she wasn’t too late to try one last time—to prevail upon Tony’s forgiveness once more.

Eventually, Tony returned to his body with a snap and focused his gaze on her. She wasn’t lying, and she wasn’t playing him for any purpose other than the one she’d plainly told him about. She let the honesty show on her face. After a while, Tony appeared to accept it, and gave a slight nod. After a quick glance at T’Challa, he muttered something about them not moving or scratching the furniture—which, she noticed, put a little gleam of amusement in the king’s eyes—, and walked determinedly out of the room.

“You are very lucky,” T’Challa told her evenly. She lifted an eyebrow. “You have been given many more chances than most people would say you deserve.”

She knew then that he had not forgiven her for her deception, for turning on him in the hangar, but that he was willing to give her some of the benefit of the doubt. More than that, though, she knew that if she did have any inclination to turn on Tony once more, she would have T’Challa and all the might behind him to contend with. He already had four of her friends under his thumb, and she did not wish to put them in any more danger than they had put themselves in already. But she didn’t want to hurt Tony. In a strange way, she was thankful that Tony had someone willing to watch his back when he was too trusting or too busy to watch it himself. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to be a nervous wreck around her, knowing that T’Challa was doing most of the watching for him.

In the kitchen behind the king, working near-silently with sharp knives and colorful fruit, were his two guards. The famous, mysterious Dora Milaje. When Natasha glanced up at them, both women looked up to meet her gaze—they too would be watching her. Rather than feeling threatened, Natasha felt at home. Suspicion and surveillance were not new to her. She’d just proven to herself once and for all that when she worked under her own authority, her judgment often did more harm to her than good to anyone else. So their warning looks and ability to meet her as equals just resurrected some of the reassurance she’d felt under S.H.I.E.L.D.’s watch. She supposed that was one part of her rearing under the Red Room that she had never recovered from. She didn’t _want_ to want others to give her orders, but she never felt truly secure when left entirely on her own. She wanted family, but for now foes would have to suffice.

Tony returned a moment later with something small and gray in his hand. Uncharacteristically silent—a symptom, she now realized, of feeling like things were outside of his ability to manipulate, or simply wanting other people to make decisions without him holding their hands—, he came within range and tossed the object at her softly. A flip-phone, she realized upon catching it. Outdated by her standards and archaic by Tony’s. Why on Earth would he even—

Oh. Tony would never possess something like this unless it had been given to him. And she knew who was the only person they both knew who would even consider sending him something so outmoded.

“Flip in case of emergency,” Tony said in a clipped explanation. “Disconnected it so nobody gets any bright ideas about spying on the Compound. Look at that thing. I get hives just having that fossil anywhere near me.”

It clearly was not the phone itself that made Tony want nothing to do with it. Natasha looked at him a moment longer, trying to convey her understanding, and then she turned her attention to the device itself. She flicked it open with her thumb, a bizarre sense-memory reminder of a time when these phones were brand new and the coolest piece of technology the average citizen had ever owned. When it flickered on several long moments later, she found that there were no texts or calls in the logs, no games installed, almost no memory in use, and that the battery was almost completely full. She wondered if Tony had even opened it once since receiving it. It had been over a month since the team’s dissolution—how long had Tony had to worry about this?

How long had he had to worry about the responsibility inherent in the one number programmed into the phone? Or about what it meant? Steve clearly didn’t realize that Tony knew exactly where he was, and could easily contact him via T’Challa if need be. So he’d sent the phone simply as a reminder that Tony wasn’t going to be good enough to handle some threats. That he was going to have to bury his ego and call for help from the man who had blamed him personally for most of the governments of the U.N. deciding to put a collar on the Avengers—as if Tony’d had any control over or choice in the matter. That Steve demanded that _Tony_ be the one to reach out and beg for help, just like she had told Tony that he had to be the one to stop chasing Steve, even though they were both doing what they thought was right, and Steve’s way was getting innocent people _killed_.

She knew that Tony had visited the Raft not long after she’d left the Compound, not long after the news had surfaced in confidential circles that the man masquerading as Barnes’s psychiatrist was actually a former Sokovian special forces commander, the man who was almost certainly responsible for the bombing in Vienna. It was after that that she’d lost track of him, but with the timing of his departure and return, as well as the age of the injures she could see on his face, she’d figured out that he’d been in Siberia with Steve and Barnes. She was thankful for that: that they’d had backup even when she couldn’t be there.

But it also meant that he’d gone to the Raft specifically to ask the others where to find Steve. She can imagine he was not met there with grace. How much ego must he have sacrificed to convince any of them to tell him where to find Steve when, as far as they knew, Tony was hell-bent on delivering Steve and Barnes to Ross with bows on their chests?

She’d accused him of letting his pride get in their way, knowing it wasn’t fair but wanting to hurt him as much as he’d just hurt her—stab him with his sharpest knife the way he’d stabbed her with her constant struggle to be loyal. Was she too going to demand Tony sacrifice more and more pieces of himself to keep others happy, to keep others safe, until he was little more than a machine going through the motions of life? She didn’t think she could do that to him. They had been friends. She had thought of him as family—a cousin, perhaps, or a rich uncle.

She looked at him now. He was standing there exchanging glances with T’Challa, and firmly avoiding looking at her or the phone—as if he wanted her to shove it into her jacket and get it out of his sight, as far out of his mind as possible. She didn’t feel like he was an uncle anymore. He was her brother, just like Steve: Tony was the one too close to her in personality for them to ever really get along perfectly, but nevertheless someone she loved and needed to protect. Even if she had to protect him from herself.

Even if she had to protect him from Steve.

Tony and T’Challa’s eyes darted over when they heard the definitive clack of the phone snapping shut in her hand. Natasha leaned forward and set it gently on the table. Then, as the two men and the Dora watched warily, she pulled a Bite out of the slim holster woven into her bra and tossed it simply on top of the phone. It went off with a snap of sound and a flash of electric discharge, and the light of the phone went dead.

The other four people in the room stared at the remains of it, then at her, while she looked levelly at Tony.

She’d filed the number away in her head, years of training to quickly memorize such information making it easy. Tony knew it was one of her skills, so he must have known that she wasn’t just recklessly throwing the resource of Steve Rogers onto the fire. But the brightness of his eyes—trust rising in them once again like the dawn—made it clear he knew exactly what she was saying, even if he was struggling to believe it.

_We don’t need him to work. He isn’t the star of this solar system. This time, we work together._

   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr post](http://atsadi.tumblr.com/post/161403458465/fundamental-attribution-error-chapter-6-atsadi).


	7. Naïve Realism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the fourth week after his arrival in Wakanda, Sam pushed Steve into a room with a therapist and settled outside with a Cosmo and an iced tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many notes because I am a bad seed who’s gone _waaaay_ too long without an update.
> 
>   1. _Format change_ : A moment of silence for all the ideas and planning I have down for this fic that I have finally had to admit I just don’t have the time to write. So **what do you guys want to see most?** Let’s make this fic a little more interactive!
>   2. Thank you to sinequanon, who helped me wrangle the tags <3
>   3. Apologies to anyone I was snippy with about the Steve/Tony tag—it's been pointed out to me that the tag suggested something quite different from what I intended. I’ve changed it to “Steve/Tony (mentioned)”.
>   4. It seems I’m not the only one starting to get my post-CA:CW fics a little muddled, so from here on out I’m going to throw in a little “Last time, on FAE…” to help everyone keep track without having to reread the whole thing every time.
> 

> 
> Now, **please note** , if you haven’t already, that I firmly headcanon MCU Steve as neurodivergent, beyond the (arguably) obvious PTSD and clinical depression. I’ve suspected it for a while due to odd things about his actions in-universe, as well as his patchy characterization from a more meta standpoint. Everything sort of fell into place in CA:CW. This chapter is the beginning of the more blatant discussions of Steve's mental health. If that worries you feel free to ask me for more info, but do be civil~
> 
> Onwards!
> 
>  
> 
> Last time with Steve… we saw him having highly disturbing nightmares, and (slowly) starting to reconsider his stance on the Accords, given his current situation. He’s finally trying to think of things from Tony and Natasha’s perspectives. He wishes he could talk to Natasha, or to the man himself; but Tony isn’t answering the phone…
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Sorry, whoops, one more important note. SPOILERS: **This chapter contains both mentions and point-of-view discussions of suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, behaviors, and attempts, self-harm, dissociation, dysphoria**... Please be aware and be careful.]
> 
>  

_**Naïve realism** : The tendency to believe that we see the world around us objectively, and that people who disagree with us must be uninformed or ignorant, irrational, or unreasonably biased (a.k.a. _naïve cynicism _)._

  
 

•

   


On the fourth week after his arrival in Wakanda, Sam pushed Steve into a room with a therapist and settled outside with a Cosmo and an iced tea.

Steve had been forced to promise sitting through at least one session, so he obediently sat. (Albeit surreptitiously checking the time on his phone, and preparing to count down the moments until his promise was fulfilled.)

“Have you seen a therapist before, Steve?”

He had already taken in the room around them, which was smaller and darker than he had expected, if he had been expecting anything. There was an enormous potted tropical plant in the corner, reaching up to the ceiling and spreading its great emerald leaves half-way across the room in every direction. A large window behind the plant displayed some of the Wakandan countryside; it was a far tamer view than the jungle outside the palace, but equally as beautiful. His armchair was set at a right angle to hers, and there was a small table at her side covered in unmarked manila folders. 

“Yes,” he replied, making himself look at her instead of the room he’d been all but smuggled into by T’Challa’s security service.

She was middle-aged, looking tidy and soft in a dark, buttoned cardigan, tan slacks, and flat gray nurse’s shoes. Her hair was long and tightly braided, graying in two thick stripes from her temples back over the crown of her head. Her body was round, her eyes bright, and her skin almost purple-dark against her chair’s cream upholstery.

“Can you tell me the reason?”

“Standard S.H.I.E.L.D. evaluation,” he replied. “After they woke me up.”

She said nothing for a while, then seemed a little surprised when he didn’t continue. “Just the one session?”

“Yes ma’am,” he agreed, disliking her incredulous tone.

“It’s Bara,” she corrected firmly. “Please feel free to call me Bara.”

He nodded at her, but he was already tensing in expectation of the next question. The thought occurred that he hadn’t been this nervous even about his first evaluation when he’d just been awoken, when the concept of psychological monitoring was still an almost completely foreign concept. No longer, it seemed, were head-shrinks solely the stuff of madhouses, shackles, and electroshock therapy.

Bara studied him for a moment, calmly taking in his hands—clenched on the armrests—, the set of his jaw, the slight flightiness of his gaze. “There have been a few… scathing articles written about you since you left America,” she opened.

Caught by surprise by the topic, he nodded at her again. “More than a few.”

“Have you read them?”

“Some.”

“And what did you think of them?”

He paused, then shook his head. After a moment, his eyebrows shot up and his gaze dropped down. “Freedom of the press. They can say what they want.”

“Yes, but you’re allowed to have your own opinions on their words, aren’t you?”

He gave her a weak glare. “Of course. What else am I supposed to think about it? They don’t know what they’re talking about, they’re writing their own propaganda. That seems to be all anybody does anymore.”

“Except for you?”

“I don’t write,” he pointed out, quirking a small grin.

She did not smile back, but rather looked thoughtful. He suddenly remembered where he was and what she was trying to do, and silently berated himself for allowing his guard to fall so quickly. He bolstered his defenses: wondering, somewhat apprehensively, what information she’d already gotten out of him.

“One of the articles I read in the _New York Times_ about your recent actions seemed to argue that you are a fascist,” she said sharply. “What would you say to that?”

He wondered if she’d seen his defenses come up and stepped up her attack in response. Even so, he could not let that one go. “Isn’t it human nature to always see your faults in others?”

She leaked a little smile at him and shrugged faintly. “An interesting thought. Avoiding my question, however.”

“I don’t think it needs to be answered.” A curl of anger burst open. “I risked my life to defeat fascists in the War, and when we took S.H.I.E.L.D. down. I have nothing more to do with them. I don’t want anything more to do with them.”

“It’s been argued that S.H.I.E.L.D. itself was a fascist organization,” she said, bluntly. “And you working for them, being a symbol of your country’s revered past, your nationalistic alter-ego, your perceived concern with upholding certain moral values… it is not so difficult to make the assumption.”

He bristled from head to toe. “I grew up in the Depression. I watched entire families starving in their one-room apartments and entire neighborhoods get abandoned or taken over by mobsters and thugs. My ma and I spent three years living on not much more than potatoes and trash from the docks. I would _never_ wish that upon America ever again. And I’m _glad_ society has gone so far past the bigotry and hatred I grew up with. It’s not perfect but it’s _better_. America can never be great without embracing her true ideals, the values she _truly_ stands for—so my codename, my costume… none of it is worth anything without some morals behind it!”

He paused, then inwardly cursed. She was an extremely effective interrogator.

“And S.H.I.E.L.D.?” she prodded. “Did they agree with that viewpoint?”

He sighed. “I don’t think most people know what fascism is anymore. Clint said it’s not much more than an insult now, since the Nazis. ”

She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Authoritarian, then.”

His mouth opened, then immediately closed before words came out without thoughts behind them.

That made a little more sense, as much as he disliked to think of it that way. A debate from many months ago over coffee with Sam and Nat had revealed that during the so-called “Red Scare,” which he had missed entirely, those who had spoken out against the Nazis “prematurely” had later been deemed communist sympathizers. And it seemed that, in so many ways, his country had gone in that stretch of time from championing democracy to settling for authoritarianism—anything to avoid being seen as remotely communist. It was not a pleasant realization. And though Steve avoided making his political views publicly known, per the advice of every PR representative he had ever been cornered by, he was firmly against the authoritarian state the U.S. had become in his absence.

Steve was not a person to submit blindly to authority, as evidenced by the situation he was in right now. He believed in individual freedom and would never obey a power that disagreed with that. There was simply no question that when the U.N. came down on the Avengers—decided to curb their right to act freely and not be subject to their orders—that Steve would categorically refuse to submit.

Bara watched him silently. He wondered briefly how many of his thoughts were leaking onto his face.

When she spoke, he had to wonder if she had some hidden mind-reading abilities. “'The state is not something one can smash to destroy',” she said, in the tone of a quotation. “'It is a relationship between people, destroyed by entering into other relationships'.” He thought about it before nodding acquiescently, and she offered a smile in response. “The famous anarchist Gustav Landauer said that.”

“You think I’m an anarchist?” he blurted.

“I think that anarchists believe drastic political overhaul must be the result of drastic existential changes to the world,” she said—which was not remotely an answer. _God_ but she reminded him of Nat.

His mouth set into a frown, and he sunk back into his armchair from where he’d been inching forwards. “You’re talking about the Accords.”

“Unless you expressly want to ignore them, I think we should at least address the reason you are sitting here today in my office.”

That made sense, at least. This was not what he had expected from a therapy appointment, but he was willing to discuss politics with her if that’s what she wanted to do. “If you wanna survive, you’ve got to adapt. Any soldier could tell you that,” he started. “But that doesn’t mean there’s only one way to adapt.”

“Tell me then, how would you have adapted to this situation?”

That was a question that’d been tearing at his mind for the past four weeks. And as much as he ruminated, he had not yet reached an answer worthy of sharing with her. Because no matter how much he thought about it, the world’s desire to hold the Avengers to some sort of official account would never be able to mesh with his firm belief that any government control would only impede the Avengers, and put their continuing efficiency—and even existence—in danger. So then he became torn between listening to the people… and protecting their lives.

It was hardly even a choice, and if that made people label him an authoritarian or an anarchist or whatever else they wished, well, so be it.

In response to her questioning look, he had to shrug lightly. “I don’t know.”

She accepted this, then pursed her lips at him. “Do you often think about the future?”

He startled. What a question. As a child, it had sometimes felt as though Steve only existed in the future. _When he was older_ , then, when he was older, _when he was bigger. When he was a soldier, when he had money, when he was married, when he was a father, when he was something,_ anything _other than what he was right now…_ And now that he was here in the future—all his dreams either fulfilled or abandoned—, he found he had little more future left to consider. Even his work with S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers had simply been reactionary. Not planned, not considered, just done. Just duty.

In truth, he hadn’t really considered his future in all the years since he had been awoken from the ice—until the Accords, when suddenly the trajectory of his entire existence was challenged. He had found a place to belong, a place where he was effective and useful, and he was admittedly horrified at the prospect of someone taking away that perfectly functional life.

He was no Tony Stark—one foot in the future and the other already lifting for its next step. Sometimes it seemed like Tony was hardly existing in the here-and-now, already planning the technology of the next decade and seeing the world as it _could_ be, rather than what it actually _was_. Steve had often admired and enjoyed that aspect of Tony, while at other times feeling helpless frustration that Tony seemed incapable of being realistic. That he seemed detached from his present, as though it—his team, Steve—were never enough just as they were. Always improving, always looking to make things better. He had to build the Compound because operating out of the Tower just wasn’t good enough anymore. Had to build Ultron because the Avengers weren’t good enough anymore. Had to demand he sign the Accords because Steve’s unwavering commitment wasn’t good enough anymore.

“Steve?” Bara prompted when his silence must have gone on for too long. “What are you thinking?”

“About Tony,” he found himself saying, suddenly desiring her input on the matter. “Tony’s always thinking about the future, instead of the present.”

“Ah,” she said, as though he had satisfied some private curiosity of hers. “Which is worse: sacrificing the present for the future, or sacrificing the future for the present?”

“That’s polarizing it,” he retorted. “I don’t see how it’s one or the other.”

“You think neither should be sacrificed?”

He shook his head once, vehemently. “Of course not. You have to consider them both.”

She hummed, peering at him. “And do you?”

 _No_ , he realized he already knew the answer. _No, I couldn’t care less about the future_. It’ll happen either way, and it’ll always be shaped by the present. So why bother considering it at all? Just do your best in the now and lay good, solid, safe groundwork for the future to be built upon.

Though his lips parted to share this deduction with her, the words refused to come. Steve felt a surge of reluctance well up in his stomach, and his mouth snapped closed. Bara was still looking at him, but he just stared back at her: unwilling to share the conclusion, and not quite sure why.

“We will talk of the present, then,” she said—again, unnervingly as if she had heard his thoughts. “Do you think now that your last mission was a success?”

He stayed silent yet again, uncomfortable. Four weeks ago, the answer to that would have been a resounding _yes, are you joking?_ He had kept Bucky safe, remained outside of the U.N.’s control, rescued the others from the Raft and from the Accords. The tactical victory was his—the losses of the other side far outweighed his own, especially since most of the losses on Steve’s side were suffered by Tony’s as well.

And that was where the words became trapped inside him. Because a tactical victory in war was not the war won. And the more Steve considered things, the clearer it became that Tony may have lost their battle, but he had won the strategic victory. He’d won the war. The Accords were being enacted as law, the Avengers were now the ones enforcing the dictates of the state, and Steve’s ability to fight back had taken a critical blow. Steve’s victory was not a decisive one. For the Accords still existed, and Bucky was still being hunted.

Perhaps this was where the interaction between the present and the future came into play, he mused distractedly. Steve’s war had all been in the present: for the immediate retreat from the imminent Accords. For Bucky’s immediate safety and freedom. But… he had not considered the long-term danger he had placed Bucky in by not accepting Tony’s help. Tony looked into the future with a fatalistic eye; he wasn’t willing to fight for the present, and simply slotted things into place as he thought they should be. Or worse… where he thought they would go anyways. What he thought would be forced upon them at some point.

He wondered if that was why Tony didn’t use the phone he’d sent. Had he already weighed Steve’s usefulness and found him wanting?

Was there no place for him anymore in the futurist’s vision?

But then… why _would_ he be needed? Tony was all about change, and if there was one thing that terrified Steve more than the idea of losing Bucky yet again, it was the thought of more _change_. Hadn’t he seen enough? Hadn’t he had his world torn from him enough times by now? Was it so terrible to want things to stay the way they were?

Another failure, then, on Steve’s part. His victory looked weaker and weaker by the day.

“No,” he said, in quiet response.

He felt her gaze sharpen on him, and was almost reluctantly curious about what terrible, personal barb she would prick him with now. As much as he might hate to admit it, even to himself, there was something sinfully cathartic about having all the ugliness inside him pouring out at the careful hands of someone whose objective was just to bleed it from him. Steve had been on his own for so long, so alone, so isolated, that even Bara’s unwanted prying was beginning to look like a light on the dark horizon.

“This was a very personal fight for you,” she noted, and he would have scoffed except she was clearly leading somewhere. “Is there a chance it was more personal than professional?”

He paused, then shook his head. “It was both.”

“Yes, but which do you think was more important to you?”

Even after considering it as best he could, Steve had no answer for her. “I don’t… they’re the same? I don’t think they’re as clean-cut as that. Not for us.”

“Us?”

All of them. _Nat_ , whose entire life had revolved around her profession since she was a young child. _Clint_ , whose loyalties were so split between his personal and professional lives that he was apparently incapable of making any commitment either way. _Sam_ , whose job had become his life, and whose friends had become his coworkers. _Steve_ , whose personal life had only begun when his professional one did. _Wanda_ , who had nothing left but her powers. _Vision_ , born into war, who struggled to build any personal life for himself whatsoever. _Rhodes_ , who merely traded his already dangerous profession for a worse one in his downtime. _Tony_ , with his all-encompassing, single-minded devotion making _everything_ about his work— _especially_ his personal life.

“The Avengers.” 

“You think all the Avengers acted out of both personal and professional motivations?”

“No,” he barked, frustrated. “They’re…” _They’re one and the same_ , he tried to project. _They can’t be separated like that_. “Tony has flashbacks sometimes, he told me once, by accident, I think. And his fear makes him do stupid things.”

She was silent, and he willed her to understand. “You’re saying Tony Stark weaponizes his P.T.S.D.?”

Steve spluttered for a moment before managing to control himself. “I don’t think it’s _that_ bad. He doesn’t get counseling, or anything like that.”

It felt as though she was disapproving for a second, before she spoke again. “When people are in positions of power, letting unresolved trauma dictate their actions can be extremely dangerous.”

A protest willed up instinctively, an automatic defense of his former teammate—but then Steve remembered Sokovia.

“Which is why,” Bara continued. “You cannot keep using threats against humanity as therapy for your own issues, Steve.”

He was silent for a moment, flat-out stunned. “ _Excuse me_?”

She maintained that infuriatingly passive gaze on him. “The trauma we experience never disappears. It can only be expunged or adapted into our psyche, not brushed aside or forgotten. The longer you persist without dealing consciously with the things that have happened to you, the events you’ve experienced which have shaped your reality, the deeper they build up inside of you, leaking out in ways you cannot control.”

He glared, affronted. “And you think I’m doing that? You think I’m an Avenger just because I’m… _traumatized_?”

Her lips pursed, and he’d almost had time to call her out for the long pause when she spoke again. “Shall I tell you why I think so?”

“Please!” he snapped, waiting to be given something real to fight, drumming his fingers on the armrests.

“You grew up small and sickly. Underestimated, under-appreciated. You probably felt helpless. You struggled to get accepted by the army so that you would not continue to feel useless, but with each rejection you only felt more so.”

He stared at her.

“Your best friend, your only friend, was shipping off and you desperately wished to join him. But even after receiving the serum you were sent off with the U.S.O. rather than to the front lines. So when you got the chance to engage in combat you went on an arguably hopeless solo mission, desperate not only to save your friend but to prove that you were of value and use. … Tell me if I am wrong.”

She paused, waited, then continued. “I cannot speak for the neurological effects of the serum on your cognition, as I have neither the access to your medical records nor the expertise, but I would be willing to guess that your motivation to be seen as something more than a weakling or a burden was not only magnified by the neurochemical effects of the procedure you went through, but also by the heightened stakes caused by the social consequences of becoming Captain America.”

She paused briefly, then went on in a more curious, gentle tone. “I know you put yourself in harm’s way facing Barnes in Washington, D.C. I’m sure you intended, on some level, to reach through to him and save him from his conditioning. But also… there is a certain phenomenon we see from time to time. A certain ritual. For a soldier to put on their old uniform, and take their own life while dressed for the role they still inhabit in their hearts. The one they feel is their true self: the source of their honor and value as a person. I may be reaching here, Steve, but from what I’ve seen—you faced the Winter Soldier in your old uniform, knowing that he would be there, and perhaps you were not expecting to get off that airship. Perhaps you believed that you could no longer be Captain America if you could not save that one tortured man, and could no longer be Steve Rogers if you could not save your friend.”

He was still staring, mouth almost agape. He burned and itched as though she had raked away his skin, grabbed his chin and forced him to peer into parts of himself even _he_ had never seen. Was he so transparent? Was she even _right_ about any of this? 

_Right, ’cause you got nothin’ to prove…_

He had not considered proving anything to anyone in so long, but still… it sounded so reasonable the way she laid it out. But it felt as though she were talking about someone else: some sad, desperate man struggling to be noticed and insisting that he be permitted to prove his worth over and over again.

An odd sort of calm had fallen over him, like his brain had pulled back from the rest of his body and turned around to take a look. He allowed himself to acknowledge, guiltily, that it had been… extremely fortunate that Bucky had been framed for the bombing in Vienna. _If he's this far gone, Nat..._ Because it hadn’t made an ounce of difference to Steve whether Bucky was innocent or not when he went in to help him. After twenty long years of Bucky saving his hide practically on a weekly basis, Steve didn’t even have to consciously think about whether or not he would defend Bucky now.

Was that also just him trying to make up for those twenty lost years of weakness? Was he still just trying to prove something to himself? To Bucky?

And in the end, Bucky had won out. Bucky always won out. Being Captain America gave him a purpose, but James Buchanan Barnes gave him a _soul_. Siberia was not the first time Steve had thrown away the shield for the man, and he was not sure it would be the last. But did that mean he could not be Captain America and Bucky’s Steve Rogers at the same time? That as much as he wanted to help, as much as he knew he _needed_ to help—had to use the gift he’d been given, couldn’t waste it, had to honor the man who’d thought him worthy—it was more important to him to make up for years of being defended by his friend?

Enough to make him willing to… commit suicide by Winter Soldier? He remembered the wilting feeling in his heart as Bucky slammed his fist against Steve’s face, over and over again on the deck of the helicarrier, aflame and slipping out of the sky. He’d been a piece of slate beneath the Soldier’s fist, brittle and cold, chipping off in splinters each time his friend struck.

_You’re —my—mission!_

As much as it hurt to admit it, there had been little inside him then but emptiness, and a faint sense of it being fitting that he should die by Bucky’s hand even as Bucky had died by his. He could have fought back. But instead, he took it. And he vividly remembered the feeling of resignation that slackened his limbs even against the blistering pain of Bucky’s metal fist against his skull. The ghost of his past’s snarling face, hovering over him like it had finally come for the soul it was owed.

He remembered being genuinely confused and surprised to wake up in hospital. He realized, suddenly—having studiously refused to fit this puzzle together before—, that perhaps he really had intended to die if he could not have saved Bucky from himself.

It was growing. The uncomfortably familiar feeling of expansiveness, billowing under his skin. Too large for his body. Too big, too much. The idea was objectively ridiculous, since he was literally three times the size he had been before—but even that had not cured him of this. Once more he was swelling past the confines of his body, reeling out into empty space. The feeling was discomfiting and sinister, aching, _terrifying_ —

He had grown up, lived most of his life in pain. Whether it was from his crooked spine, his faulty heart, his flat feet, or simply the way he’d had to strain and squint at every moment, each and every day against the failings of his eyes. When he could cope no longer, the constant pain would turn into a relieving distance from his own flesh. A hope that he was more than the crumbling body he’d been given. Sometimes the pain would flare up, and Steve’s mind would flare out— _elsewhere, out there, anywhere but here_ —without his permission. 

One of the only ways he had found he was able to curb it before it went too far, once upon a past life, had been Bucky’s stabilizing presence. That, or being punched in the face. Bucky had jokingly scolded him from time to time, suggesting without really meaning it that Steve must have liked getting hurt for all he invited it left, right, and center. Steve had never been able to tell him that he was not too far from the truth. 

Or, it was no so much that Steve enjoyed being hurt, as much as he craved the sense of _presence_ , of physical existence that came with a sharp burst of pain. The visceral certainty of the pain that radiated from a cut, or a bruise, and not simply the bone-deep ache of his mere being. A delineation of his own borders. A distraction from himself. He remembered asking Bucky to teach him how to box, and though Bucky had reluctantly done so he had always pulled his punches, no matter how much Steve snapped at him not to hold back. He found that the only way to get that rush of sensation—aside from actually hurting himself, which he had stopped doing after the one time his ma had caught him beating his knuckles bloody on the bathroom door frame, and cried over it for days—was to find someone else willing to hit him instead.

A punch felt like a recalibration, like the force and the pain and the jolt of physical awareness snapped him back into his own brain from where he had been drifting away. And as much as he did not truly wish to be hurt, it was far preferable to the awful, terrifying feeling that he might never re-inhabit his own skin if he didn’t force it to happen. He would never have walked away from a fight, could not sit back and watch others get hurt without stepping up, but there was a reason he always stepped in himself, too.

After the serum, it became so much worse. He was like a bird trying to home in on its base after a long flight, but the base had changed, somehow, and he was left to constantly, _endlessly_ circle above his own body, never quite settling in to roost. The pain was not only harder to come by because he was so much stronger and more durable, but it did less and less to snap him back as time went on. Bucky soon became his only reliable method for stopping his mind floating away into space, reminding him who he was and who he had been and where he should be. Without that… not even Peggy’s voice hiding tears over the radio, her image in his compass, had been enough to pull him back when he was in the sinking plane, thinking with horror—or not thinking at all—that he was as good as gone without Bucky there, anyway.

He was left with things like jumping out of the Triskelion, crashing through the ceiling and landing on the foyer floor surrounded by shattered glass, wishing that it had hurt so much more so that he could have been better pulled into himself for his upcoming escape.

Was this what Bara meant when she talked about unresolved issues from the past coming out unexpectedly? Steve had certainly considered that he had plenty to make up for to Bucky, for a childhood and more of having his ass pulled out of the fire. And he was glaringly, uncomfortably aware of his poor ability to cope with his brain’s nasty habit of turning into radio static from time to time, without Bucky’s presence. But… was it possible that his drive to get Bucky back ran so deeply that it interfered with the rest of his life? With his will to live? It clearly had superseded any sense of obligation to the Avengers, or a greater sense of obligation to anyone outside of James Barnes.

He must have been staring at the abstract watercolor hanging on the wall opposite him for at least five minutes, now. Bara had stayed silent, letting him think.

She did, eventually, clear her throat and say in a quiet, soothing voice: “Steve, we have two minutes left.”

He nodded vaguely at her. Then he paused, nodded again, and finally turned to look at her. “I should have… asked earlier. What’s the point of this?”

Because if the idea of therapy was to make him feel better, he felt that she had failed quite heroically.

“To help you think,” she replied instead. “To help sort out which thoughts in your head you wish to keep, and which to process and discard. To help you make sense of your mind.”

He swallowed convulsively, then nodded to show that he understood.

Outside, Sam jumped to his feet as soon as he saw Steve, clearly noting his stunned expression. The floating was starting. He could feel it in the way Sam looked a little like a face painted on a poster— _each one you buy is a bullet—_ , like he might smudge if Steve touched him.

“How did it go?” Sam asked, warily.

Steve shrugged. “Spar when we get back?”

Sam nodded slowly, and so Steve was able to drag himself back to the sting of Sam’s armored fists hitting his face, his back slamming into the mat from time to time or his limbs and core straining to keep him in motion. Though he could not let go, had to keep Sam safe from it, there was security in the bunching and firing of his own muscles, and the heat of his own flesh. But he still felt loose, shaking too much inside a body not securely fastened.

The other Steve slid slickly around inside skin too large, his brittle bones creaking, his heavy lungs straining…

He spent the few hours before crawling into bed in Bucky’s chamber. Staring at his friend’s frozen face through the tiny glass pane of the door and itching to reach out and touch him.

It seemed he still had much to think about.

  


•

  


The princess of Wakanda was standing in front of Sam wearing an expression he could only describe as a distasteful glare, though it was attempting to mold itself into a polite grimace.

She’d cornered him in the hallway between the Avengers’ rooms and the elevator down to the gym, which meant she’d likely been on her way to corner him in their wing. He wasn’t sure whether it was better or worse that they were in public—her being the princess and all, she could probably maul him wherever she pleased without anyone giving it much mind, and at least in the Avengers’ apartments Clint or Wanda might hear him scream.

Judging by the look on her face, a mauling wasn’t completely ruled out of his immediate future.

“Mr. Wilson,” she greeted, her cold tone perfectly matching her expression.

“Your Highness,” he said, giving a little bow. (They hadn’t exactly been given etiquette lessons upon their arrival, so he and the others were basically winging it with their manners around the royal family.)

“My father’s state funeral is tomorrow,” she continued without preamble, and Sam felt a little blood leave his face. He’d almost managed to forget that T’Chaka had been her father too, and that she too was embroiled in this disaster beyond the death of just her king. She did not seem to expect any reaction or sympathy from him though, and kept talking without pause. “One of the visiting officials has requested an audience with you and the other fugitives.”

Apparently, the time of everybody pretending they didn’t know where the fugitive Avengers were hiding was over.

Sam had been pretty shocked to find out that anyone had known in the first place, and honestly suspected Stark must have figured it out and let it slip. But T’Challa had made it quite clear that the information had been garnered from various other sources. One of those was the fact that T’Challa had returned Zemo (the man Steve and Barnes had vanished to find) to Berlin alone—without the only two free men who’d had any idea of his location, and who had last been seen flying for that location hell for leather. The king’s tiny, quinjet-fast plane had been subjected to an exceptionally thorough search before he’d been permitted to take off again from Berlin, which had almost caused a diplomatic catastrophe. (Even Sam knew it was bad politics to essentially accuse the king of a sovereign nation of stowing two internationally wanted fugitives in his trunk, and most of his political savvy came from HBO.)

But even aside from that tantalizing link between T’Challa and Steve’s last known location, it was almost impossible to keep five such high-profile fugitives in the sight of dozens, if not hundreds of members of the palace staff and keep them under wraps. People talked. They always talked, no matter how loyal they might be. When Steve had protested the lack of secrecy (afraid that if people knew where to find him they would know where to come after Barnes, too), T’Challa had rather blandly asked if Steve would have preferred rooms in one of the country’s lovely detention facilities, where the information about their whereabouts could have been far more easily controlled.

That had shut Steve up pretty quickly, which Sam allowed himself to find sort of wryly amusing.

Since it didn’t appear that Princess Shuri was going to offer him a speck more information willingly, Sam obligingly asked which official wanted to meet with them. He was almost entirely sure it was going to be Ross, there in his official capacity as Secretary of State. Say what you would about how Stark handled the Accords mess, but they’d all been put in an extremely tight corner by the appointment of Thaddeus “Hulk-Hunter” Ross to the State Department. It went so far beyond the Accords themselves. Saying _no_ to the Secretary of State—no matter how repulsive they might be as a person—was not something to be done lightly. And yet how could they have _ever_ trusted the man appointed as their overseer?

In the month since he’d been freed from the Raft, Sam had found himself with a lot of something that had been a direly precious commodity during the week where it all went wrong. From the moment Ross had walked in with the Accords, Sam had had little to no quiet time to really think: not without having to worry that if he thought too long his life as he knew it might come to a screeching halt, if not a bloody end. He thought he’d done all his thinking in the Raft, and his first few days in Wakanda. But with every day that passed his brain uncovered new, terrible understandings about everything that had happened, like a wanderer flipping rocks over to reveal the vile insects churning beneath.

Really, the worst one was quite simple: what if they had said _no_ to the Accords, to Ross… but had actually taken them seriously? What if they had fought them in Vienna—but the document had been ratified and enforced anyway? What then? Would they have retired, or would they have signed? Or would they have ended up exactly here: on the run from the law, but this time enforcing vigilante justice when and wherever they could? Is that something Sam would have chosen willingly? Steve? Any of them?

He hadn’t thought of it that way at the time. The thought of “what if this really does become law?” had hardly even occurred. Had he just decided it wasn’t his job to worry about that kind of thing? Even in the three days between Ross’s ultimatum and the bomb at the meeting in Vienna, he had only ever considered the Accords from the position of “we can’t let this happen.” Stupid, stupid. He’d thought that perhaps once they had gone into action, crippled the Avengers, and caused far more casualties than were necessary, that they would have been able to attack them from that angle. Perhaps the Accords would never have been defeated completely, but they could at least have been in some sort of a position to do _something_ about them.

And while Sam knew that Steve would be horrified and angry at the thought of letting innocent people die while they fooled around in the political realm, what other options were there? Had any of them been thinking further than a couple of hours into the future? If they had, would exile have even been something they considered as an alternative?

They had argued with Stark about signing the Accords, as if by convincing that one man of their fears they could avoid this entire situation; but in the end Stark had nothing to do with it. One-hundred and seventeen sovereign nations had signed the damn thing—what the hell was Tony Stark meant to do in the face of that kind of support? This wasn’t some hateful bill making its way through Congress, aiming to get all their names and stats on a list and file it away for God-knows-what corrupt executive to access at will. This wasn’t something Stark could argue against in front of a Senate committee, or gather lobbyists to oppose, or throw money at by the bushel until it went obediently away.

Even Tony Stark wasn’t wealthy enough to buy off one-hundred and seventeen U.N. ambassadors, and—quite frankly—Sam wasn’t sure he would have been able to live with himself if they’d allowed him to do so, even to win this fight against the Accords.

What would that have meant about the Avengers? What would that have made them?

Stark was right when he’d said there was no decision-making process at hand, but not for the reason he’d meant. It wasn’t that all the Avengers were quite so riddled with guilt over the lives they’d taken in the course of their duty that they would thrust their reins into the first hands that reached out for them. But perhaps that wasn’t fair to Stark. Perhaps he really did believe that they needed accountability to this extreme degree—Rhodes certainly seemed convinced that Stark had _always_ been on the side of oversight, ever since Afghanistan, but… but no, that still wasn’t why the rest of the Avengers had no choice but to sign.

They’d had no choice because their choices had been taken away. That was one of the reasons Steve had argued so vehemently against the Accords: because they would take away the Avengers’ right to chose their own course of action, instead throwing those choices into the hands of some suited panel in an office somewhere, sending decrees down from on high… like the World Security Council had ordered S.H.I.E.L.D. to fire a _nuclear warhead_ at the island of Manhattan. The Avengers were supposed to be a rapid response team, and since when had shadowy figures in suits and ties with tumblers of iced mountain spring water in front of them ever been the best people to decide how those kinds of missions went? That was why there was such a thing as field command!

The problem with that angle was that there was nobody regulating the Avengers. At all. They’d had some semblance of a chain of command, although it never seemed to be needed since nobody ever felt the need to question Steve’s authority. But… what authority was that? Even at the time, Steve had held no sway over them beyond what they were willing to give them, and Sam was just… he wished he were at a loss to explain why he’d accepted Steve’s command without worrying about checking up on him beforehand, but he knew the answer was a rather short and shameful one beginning with “Captain” and ending with “America.” 

Captain America needed his help. What more could a soldier ask for?

And _now_ , now that Sam knew where Steve’s rank had come from, now that he knew Steve had less command experience than _Sam himself did_ … Now he knew that (save for one session, a month or two after he’d been defrosted,) S.H.I.E.L.D. had never once asked him any questions at all... Not even about his experience, but simply… was he fit to be in the field? Sam could only conclude that they just hadn’t given a crap about whether or not Steve was mentally fit to be running around without psychiatric oversight, never mind leading a special ops team on life-or-death missions.

From that perspective, it sounded _ludicrous_. If any random WWII soldier with the rank of private _or_ captain—really any rank at all—had been sent to the future and had to deal with the shock of the deaths of his loved ones, of practically everyone he had ever known or so much as seen on the street, the loss of his culture, the loss of any plans he’d ever had for his life… just _loss_ , staggering loss on a scale unknown to anyone else in this history of mankind—loss unfathomable to any human mind that didn’t have to experience it… god, if it had been anyone other than “Captain America” they would have put the man immediately somewhere quiet and calm, with 24-hour access to the best therapists and medical expertise they could scramble. Somewhere where the man could recover from just having gotten off the front lines into a whole different world. Where he could get over the shell shock, the culture shock, the shock of grief. He would have been in a nice upstate facility for months, at least, but more likely years. Someone like Sam would have been pulled in to talk to him, a fellow solder, someone who could get as close to the experience as possible and help to guide him through the transition.

(What could have been, had someone other than S.H.I.E.L.D. been called in to take care of Captain America?)

But far from any of that, Steve had been given a new uniform based off of his comic book counterpart (a fantasy man with seventy years more experience and renown than Steve had ever attained), a team made up of people he’d never met before and who were willing to take his orders only so far as they agreed with them (Stark and the Hulk required no explanation, Natasha followed nobody blindly, Thor surely wouldn’t have given two shits about this random Earthling in a blue bodysuit, and even Clint seemed like kind of a maverick from what Sam could determine), and an order to _save the Earth from invading aliens_.

Sam considered himself a pretty well-grounded guy, but he was also pretty sure if that had happened to him—going to sleep in a warzone and waking up in the year 2086 with robots and god-only-knows-what-else hovering over him, demanding that he save them from invading space lizards with laser guns and giant flying silverfish, with the help of this team of superfreaks and future-spies, wearing a carbon-fiber wetsuit with hard-light wings on the back—Sam would have just curled up in the nearest corner and rocked back and forth until he had projected himself back into 2016.

Fortunately for the Earth… they had lucked out, and Steve had demonstrated a sort of psychological plasticity experts had quite literally been oohing and aahing and cooing over for five years.

Well, a lot of them had. The rest had been asking the sorts of questions Sam was only now starting to consider. Was Steve _really_ coping, or was he just siphoning every emotion and event he experienced into some morbid lead-lined tank deep within his mind, and then marching on with nothing more holding him up than bullheadedness and an aesthetically gritted jaw? How badly—exactly—really—had Steve been damaged by his traumatic teleportation to the 21 st century?

Sam had even found peer-reviewed articles (some directly concerning Steve, and some only referencing his situation) that demanded he be submitted for some sort of external evaluation—some that argued he was being coerced into working with S.H.I.E.L.D., and then the Avengers, because he’d been given no real choice not to keep doing what he’d been doing in the war. They reminded Sam that nobody had turned to Steve, taken the shield out of his hands for a moment, given him a genuinely friendly smile, and told him that he was allowed to take a break, now.

That the world didn’t really sit on his shoulders.

That he could come back if he wanted to, but first he had to sit down, rest his legs, and really think about the decision.

He hadn’t been given that. He’d just been tossed like a hot potato between Important People demanding more and more service of him until he’d started demanding it of himself.

Although the last five years had been somewhat less… intense than the frontlines of World War II, Steve had been serving in a combat role, or waiting on-call 24/7, for seven consecutive years. No soldier was ever required to serve that long a tour. Ever. Even soldiers on six-year contracts were given _leave_ : leave in which they would only be called back if it was absolutely imperative.

And although the Avengers had originally been conceived of as an emergency response team, Sam knew that Steve had worked with S.H.I.E.L.D. on a regular basis following the Battle of New York and the Avengers’ disbandment—practically full-time, along with the S.T.R.I.K.E. teams, Natasha, and sometimes on solo missions. And after S.H.I.E.L.D. collapsed, the Avengers had slowly been accumulating mission specs that were distinctly outside the realm of emergencies. They wanted to serve, and they _could_ serve. They had salaries from the Avengers that covered whatever was left over when Stark was done feeding, housing, and outfitting them, so why shouldn’t they take on every high-risk mission they could find the time for?

But that had left Steve as a non-stop soldier who, by this point, had no idea what he would do with himself if he weren’t allowed to go on missions (despite Sam’s rather brilliant, semi-serious ultimate fighting idea). It left him a ticking time bomb of trauma and… Sam didn’t even know what else to call it, with nobody shouldering the responsibility of commanding the team with him now that Stark had taken a step back.

And the other problem was… the problem was, as Sam had slowly—excruciatingly slowly—started to realize, that field commanders themselves were still under higher command. There was still someone above them taking care of the long-term goals. The strategy rather than just the immediate tactics. The bird’s-eye view, the eye of God, or whatever you wanted to call it. And those people were also in charge of making sure that their field commanders were fit for duty.

Sam had known, of course, that they were acting as vigilantes. (If famous, public, and generally well-accepted ones.) Intellectually, he’d known that. It’s just that, sometimes, that fact was hard to remember with any sort of clarity when they were at the Compound surrounded by legions of staff, the best equipment money could buy (or better), Hill with her ever-present tablet and commanding scowl, and the regular stream of missions they carried out without anyone making any sort of fuss over it. They had the F.B.I. and the C.I.A. and the military calling them in for consults and aid with their particularly hairy problems, for crying out loud!

It all just felt so… legitimate. It was like being a Ranger, Super-S.E.A.L. Team 6: just another special ops branch among many. It was so easy to forget that they were nothing more than a glorified private militia.

They had no badges. They had no rank, no legal authority. The Avengers Corporation was a non-stock, not-for-profit group coasting by on donations from the public (by volume mostly one Tony Stark), charities like the Stark Relief Foundation, and the occasional government grant. The Avengers logo meant nothing. It meant only that the Avengers, Co. owned the rights to their likenesses. It meant that if someone took issue with one of them—Wanda, for example—they could only sue the Avengers and couldn’t actually touch her for something she’d done in the Avengers’ name, unless the company kicked her to the curb.

It meant that Stark, serving almost single-handedly as the Avengers’ board of directors, was well within his rights to demand that she remain out of sight until the legal nightmare that she, Natasha, Steve, and Sam had created in Nigeria started to die down. Before someone sued the Avengers for more than they could recover from either financially or politically, or forced Stark to denounce her membership and let the wolves at her. 

God, it was so easy to forget how sheltered they had been. How far above the law Stark had been so carefully suspending them.

All the arrests they had carried out were citizen’s arrests only. Almost all the combat and surveillance missions they had gone on had been illegal. Every time they’d stepped foot on foreign soil and punched a goon or torn up some property, every single time they did that they’d been committing a crime. But those were crimes that money could soothe: that it could buff and shine so that nobody quite realized what was truly happening.

Not even the people committing those crimes, apparently.

But all the _kills_ they’d carried out—accidental, incidental, or otherwise—had been manslaughter, plain and simple, and that was something all of Stark’s wealth could never repair. Maybe those they’d killed had deserved it, or maybe their deaths had been necessary to prevent something worse, but the Avengers still hadn’t had any right to make those decisions. And, god, the civilians that had died, even if they’d been doing their best to protect them, who’s to say they couldn’t have done a better job if they’d been partnered with the police without having to depend on that particular chief’s goodwill? Could they have… could they have spared all those people in Lagos if they'd simply been in communication with the local authorities?

Oh god, Sam was starting to feel the burgeoning nausea of his horror, clawing at his insides. The insects were churning in his head.

Princess Shuri was giving him a bit of an odd look, but then she shifted her feet in a dismissive sort of way. She answered his question in a clipped tone: “The Vice President of the United States will be attending. I suspect your president considered it to be in bad taste to send Secretary Ross, considering.”

His relief barely made a dent... but it did soothe him a little.

Not Ross. _Not Ross_.

A moment later he realized that the V.P. might not be too much of a step up—they were going to have to face Vice President Bradley: a man Sam respected more than the president and every member of his Cabinet (Ross obviously excluded) put together. They were going to have to try to make an account of actions that Sam was no longer sure were excusable to the man the papers still called Justice Bradley even years after he’d served in that capacity.

And frankly, lot of those actions Sam was already sure were inexcusable.

He nodded tightly at the princess. “Thank you for letting me know.”

She stared at him for a long moment, radiating dislike and disapproval. Sam was quite used to that reaction by now, although he wasn’t sure if he was imagining the extra force of irritation in her scowl or not. Perhaps it was because she was so highly ranked and yet still had to acquiesce to her brother’s demands. Oh, how she must hate the five of them. She was keeping a pretty decent lid on herself, really… but of course she’d been trained to do so since birth. She reminded him weirdly of Stark in that way.

“There is another matter,” she said reluctantly. “Ms. Potts has demanded that we return the plane you stole from your teammates. We must produce it within three days or pay to replace it, and neither I nor my brother are willing to send the Avengers 4.36 billion U.S. dollars from our treasuries.”

Sam grimaced. While losing the quinjet wasn’t the worst blow they’d been dealt, it definitely wasn’t good. If they ever did decide to leave Wakanda, it would either have to be on foot on in a transport donated by T’Challa. Somehow… Sam didn’t expect that the king would look all too kindly on a request for something even as simple as a prop plane, if they would still have such an outdated thing in Wakanda.

And worse: Sam had recently found out that the three nations bordering Wakanda—Kenya, Ethiopia, and South Sudan—had recently informed the U.N. General Assembly that they were ruthlessly patrolling their borders for any sign of the ex-Avengers. An escape on land was going to be difficult and dangerous, at best. And an escape by air would probably fare only slightly better, since not only those three countries but the further surrounding states of Uganda, Sudan, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and Somalia had also made it clear that if any unregistered aircraft was detected flying out of the landlocked Wakanda and into their airspace, that aircraft would be subject to immediate military action.

It wasn’t that Sam thought T’Challa couldn’t furnish them with a plane none of these countries would ever be able to detect, but that T’Challa probably _wouldn’t_ do so. They’d been backed into yet another corner—without the quinjet and its stealth capabilities, there was no way they were leaving Wakanda without T’Challa’s permission, or without seriously endangering their lives.

“Right,” he said, a little faintly. He felt a little like a gossamer noose had tightened around his throat. “Did Ms. Potts say anything else?”

“Nothing you need to hear,” she snipped, before giving him a nod that felt more like an insult than a farewell, and strode off down the hall.

 _Things are just getting better and better around here,_ Sam thought morbidly.

  


•

  


“Good news, Wilson,” Sam heard Clint call as soon as he entered the common space between their apartments. 

Almost despite himself and his dire mood, Sam perked up a little at Clint’s words. Ignoring his tone—he had quickly learned that the archer tended quite caustic when under stress (and they had been under nothing but stress since before they’d met up in Leipzig)—, Sam wandered around the wall shielding the doors from the main common area and saw him perched on the square couch, with the tablet they’d been given to share on his knees.

“Could use some of that,” Sam admitted, folding his arms and standing over the other man, waiting impatiently to hear the good news before relaying his conversation with the princess.

“Our bounties have gone up again,” Clint continued, his voice so cheerful that it took Sam a moment to actually register the words. “Well, not all of them. You and I went up by five-K but I'm still worth less than Lang. Barnes is frozen at fifty. Wanda’s up to seventy-five-K, and any helpful tidbit on the man himself is now worth one… hundred… _thousand_ dollars!” he finished, like a game show host announcing the grand prize.

Did Sam’s mother realize her son was an international fugitive worth ten grand to anyone who could lead the authorities to his arrest? Did she know that was the price on his head? She couldn’t possibly have missed the fugitive part, but did she know exactly what he had done? Had she accessed the C.I.A.'s or Interpol’s list of Notices and read through the charges laid at his feet? None of the ex-Avengers warranted inclusion on anyone’s Most Wanted roster, but only for the dubiously comforting reason that they were all receiving more than enough publicity without taking up space on any such list. _Leave the Top Tens to the small-time murderers and rapists_ , Sam thought, a little wildly.

He had looked up the charges leveled against them all, of course. Many times over. He wasn’t quite sure whose horrified him the most.

Clint was in the most lukewarm water out of the six of them, but that r eally was only relatively speaking. Sam frankly didn’t find it much of a comfort that the person whose crimes ranked two severity levels below his own was charged with arson, seven counts of assault, two counts of aggravated assault, transporting unlawful aliens into Germany, illegally transporting weapons into Germany, identity fraud, endangering an airport and aircraft, conspiracy to the theft of the quinjet, aiding and abetting Steve and Barnes, and escape from federal prison.

Scott ranked above Clint only for the sheer volume of property damage and number of aggravated assault charges he faced, plus the grievous violation of his parole. (God, Sam hadn’t even considered that when he put Scott’s name forward, when he’d told Clint how to contact him. Why had Scott come at all? Why hadn’t he said anything??)

Sam, Steve, and Barnes had to answer for their actions in Romania as well as Germany, and both Sam and Steve had the Raft breakout against them on top of that.

And Wanda… Wanda was in so incredibly deep it was almost miraculous that Steve had still managed to outdo her. Her charges may have been the simplest out of them all: illegally entering Germany, endangering the airport, and escaping the Raft, plus the various assault charges. But the _number_ of assaults she had been charged with, and how many had recently been changed to homicides made Sam’s stomach churn. Her abilities meant that every attack she carried out was considered aggravated by its very nature, with the courts—admittedly rightly—deeming her powers a deadly weapon in use.

The rub of it was that Sam had read through all their charges over and over again, trying to find the spurious accusations he had started off so _certain_ had to be embedded in there: exaggerations and aggrandizements and—and—… there was nothing in there he could dispute.

Not a thing.

All these things they’d done had, well, they had always been illegal but had also always been tacitly permitted… well they were still illegal, and now they were being called in for a reckoning. Sam was vaguely surprised they hadn’t been charged for every action they’d ever taken under the Avengers’ banner, accepted at the time or not, but perhaps it was only a matter of time before that could all be arranged. It had already been decided that the U.S. would be the ones trying the Avengers, since most of them were U.S. nationals and (to be frank) neither Germany nor Romania actually possessed the means to keep someone like Wanda confined against her will. Sam, Clint, and Scott had not been underestimated either, so all of them had gone into the meta-max prison together. If nothing else, the fact that they were going to be tried under U.S. federal law at least meant that they could only be charged with crimes that were crimes both in the States and in the countries they’d been committed in... although considering the nature of their offenses that didn't leave much out.

He knew now that, for all who signed it, the offer Stark had put in front of Steve in Berlin contained the stipulation that all of their past actions would be retroactively cast under the Accords’ jurisdictional protection, making their actions in Romania perfectly legal U.N. peacekeeping efforts. 

The value of that offer suddenly hit Sam like a tsunami. With it came a wash of impotent fury—flooding every crevice of his body when he remembered that the offer to save himself had been given to Steve, but held out of Sam’s reach. _Why?_ Why hadn’t Stark seen fit to offer Sam the same courtesy he gave Steve? Was it just pettiness over Sam’s decision to follow the other man? A way to act out his irritation that Steve commanded the kind of loyalty Stark couldn’t even fathom?

(Would Sam have even listened to him, if Stark had presented him the same offer he did Steve? Or had he been too deeply entrenched in his mandate to Follow Steve’s Lead to listen to a word Stark said? He couldn’t even tell anymore. He wasn’t sure he could trust his own mind anymore, his own judgments and memories.)

The worst list of charges by far were on Steve’s Red Notice. Sam had only been able to read half of it before he’d been forced to take a break for his sanity. Or his heart, perhaps. It had felt tight in his chest, like it was birthing a black hole. By the time he’d made it down to Steve’s ultra-HD Avengers ID photo at the bottom (looking so out of place amongst the grainy mug shots and damaged candid images of the other fugitives), Sam had felt like something slick and writhing had found a permanent home in his gut. Even just the public extract available on Interpol’s website read like something out of a bad legal drama.

And the worst part was still that no matter how many times Sam read and read and re-read and read it again and again and again—he could find nothing in it that was unjustified.

Steve had done all of those things.  
  


> **ROGERS, STEVEN GRANT**   
>  **WANTED BY THE JUDICIAL AUTHORITIES OF UNITED STATES**
> 
> **IDENTITY PARTICULARS**  
>  Present family name:  **ROGERS**  
>  Forename:  **STEVEN GRANT**  
>  Sex:  **Male**  
>  Date of birth:  **07/04/1918 (99 years old; NOTE: appears to be 32 years old)**  
>  Place of birth:  **New York, United States**  
>  Language spoken:  **English**  
>  Nationality:  **United States**
> 
> **PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION**  
>  Height:  **1.84 m**  
>  Weight:  **98 kg**  
>  Colour of hair:  **Blond**  
>  Colour of eyes:  **Blue**
> 
> **CHARGES**  Published as provided by requesting entity
> 
>   **1\. Crimes committed in Romania**  
>  Unlawful Flight to Avoid Prosecution - Aiding and Abetting [Voluntary Manslaughter of an officer (4 counts), Aggravated Assault against an officer resulting in life-threatening bodily injury, Aggravated Assault against an officer resulting in serious bodily injury (7 counts), Aggravated Assault against an officer resulting in bodily injury (6 counts), Reckless Endangerment during flight, Property Damage involving explosives]; Aggravated Assault against an officer resulting in serious bodily injury, Aggravated Assault against an officer resulting in bodily injury (2 counts), Assault against an officer (Second and Third Degree), Motor Vehicle Robbery resulting in bodily injury, Obstructing or Impeding Officers (6 counts), Destruction of Police Property
> 
>   **2\. Crimes committed in Germany**  
>  Unlawful Flight to Avoid Prosecution - Receiving Stolen Cultural Property, Escape from federal custody, Assisting Escape from federal custody, Motor Vehicle Theft, Receiving Stolen Property; Interference with Dispatch and Operation of Mass Transportation Vehicle, Aggravated Assault against an officer involving an explosive (3 counts), Aggravated Assault against an officer with a dangerous weapon (2 counts), Trespass in the secure area of an airport while in possession of a dangerous weapon; Aggravated Robbery of an aircraft resulting in permanent and life-threatening injury to an officer
> 
>   **3\. Crimes committed in the United States**  
>  Unlawful Flight to Avoid Prosecution - Aggravated Assault against an officer resulting in serious bodily injury (2 counts), Aggravated Assault against an officer resulting in bodily injury (17 counts), Instigating and Assisting Escape from federal prison involving the use of force (4 counts), Trespass at a secure government facility with the intent to commit a felony, Unlawfully Entering the United States
> 
> SHOULD BE CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS AND AN ESCAPE RISK
> 
> **PHOTOS**  
> 
> 
> **IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION PLEASE CONTACT**  
>  Your national or local police  
>  General Secretariat of INTERPOL   
>    
> 

No, Sam had helped Steve do all those things, and more. They’d hadn’t been charged for their illegal entry into Austria, or Romania, receiving the confidential info from Sharon, or anything they’d done in Lagos. Sam didn't even know what to think about Steve and Barnes's trespass into Russia.

He had started to feel like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, or maybe the guillotine: would they be charged with more crimes, or had someone decided that their existing charges would carry a life sentence as it was and couldn’t be bothered to come up with further charges? Every day he checked the Interpol website waiting to see an updated list of crimes, and every day he didn’t he wasn’t sure whether to be relived or to wind himself up tighter into a ball of anxiety.

And even worse… he knew they only published the most serious offenses of the fugitive on the public Notice. What the hell else did they have on Steve that wasn’t quite serious enough to make it onto this endless list? 

He wasn’t sure—when he’d been on the phone with Rhodes, and had the terrible realization that he could be exiled in Wakanda for the rest of his natural life—that he could feel any worse about what he’d done and where he’d ended up than he had at that moment. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel this kind of constant, gnawing, gaping _ache_ of regret and horror and fear and other emotions he couldn’t even put a name to. He hadn’t known there was the possibility of this sort of a living death lurking in the recesses of his mind. He understood Barnes’s wish to go into the ice now, with a sort of visceral longing he’d have thought impossible at the time Barnes went under. He just wanted a break from his own existence.

Clint was watching him for his reaction to the news, and whatever he saw made him grunt and give a little shrug of his shoulders. “Thought you were training with Cap?”

So Sam curtly filled him in on his meeting with Princess Shuri, and about their upcoming audience with Vice President Bradley. Whatever he felt about it, Clint maintained a straight face and gave Sam only the barest of acknowledging nods before heaving himself off the couch and wandering into the kitchen.

The tablet sat next to where he’d been, and Sam hopped over to grab it and collapse in one of the couch’s corners. He flicked it on to the page Clint had been accessing, and quickly closed that tab. That was something he couldn’t bear just yet. Instead, he went to the New Yorker, which had been featuring some scathing political cartoons about the Avengers he nevertheless found morbidly amusing.

He wondered, in moments of lowered defenses, if the fact that he was basically self-medicating with sarcastic political scribbles meant that he was just about to crack.

Today’s Avengers-related cartoon featured a team roster of Cap, Widow, Falcon, Scarlet Witch, Hulk, and Hawkeye, which wasn’t a team that had ever existed in reality and yet still got the point across pretty effectively. The artist had a loose, bubbly style that worked well enough with the superhero theme—it also gave them all beady eyes, exaggerated proportions, and clumsy round fingers.

On the left side was the team lounging about on deck chairs around an outside pool the Compound didn’t actually have—all except for Wanda, who was stretched out on a lilo on the water, her breasts straining sarcastically at the top of her uniform’s leather bodice. A small robot hovered near her feet, holding the bottom of her coat out of the pool. All their uniforms were ruffled and dinged and their faces were dirty, clearly having just returned from a fight. They all had delicate flutes of champagne or cocktails with little umbrellas inside clutched in their sausage fingers, and they were all grinning at each other and laughing… apparently without a care in the world.

On the other side of the cartoon was a tiny little Stark surrounded by a ring of glaring, spittle-spewing bipartisan senators in dark suits, one of whom was thrusting a comically long piece of paper entitled “BILL” into his hands. The cartoon Stark was Bambi-eyed and sweating, looking exactly like a fawn in a circle of wolves.

At the bottom of the drawing was the title _"EARTH'S MIGHTIEST HEROES"_.

Sam sighed and flicked the device off. He supposed they had a point.

  
  


* * *

_NOTES_

S.H.I.E.L.D. and psychological evaluations

In this chapter Steve tells his psychologist that he was in one therapy session, once. I must say, I found that hard to really believe… before thinking about it some more. Would even _S.H.I.E.L.D._ have provided him with that little support? I decided yes, yes they would.

At the very least, I suspect Steve would have opted out if at all possible. And in terms of mandatory psychological evaluations, I have used the following exchanges from _Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D._ season 2, episode 13, to extrapolate that S.H.I.E.L.D. was not exactly _diligent_ about keeping an eye on their agents’ mental health.

> **Melinda May** : Protocol is anyone on the Index undergoes a full psych eval. and threat assessment.  
>  **Phil Coulson** : We'd need to bring in someone from outside.

They’re talking about Skye/Daisy’s newfound abilities, which put her on the Index as well as the personnel roster. This seems to indicate that full psychological evaluations (and threat assessments) were not standard unless agents were enhanced. One then wonders what sort of evaluations non-enhanced agents received, and what kind of ongoing evaluations were given to any of them. 

Since Steve _was_ enhanced (and Nat affirmed in _The Avengers_ that all of them were on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s threat list, probably what _Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D._ calls “The Index”), he presumably was given one full psych eval. and threat assessment by an outside psychiatrist, as per protocol. As for the rest of the time…? (???) 

Now, you might argue that this excerpt doesn’t actually suggest that S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were not given routine psych. evals. This is true. So allow me to introduce…

> **Skye** : You're kidding, right? A shrink?  
>  **Melinda May** : It's not personal.  
>  **Skye** : Hell, it's not personal. It's a _shrink_.  
>  **Melinda May** : It's standard procedure for anyo—  
>  **Skye** : No, I know, but I'm not just on the Index. I'm also an agent.  
>  **Melinda May** : Exactly. So you know it's non-negotiable.  
> 

Skye/Daisy’s reaction indicates that she has never before had to undergo psychological evaluation in her time at S.H.I.E.L.D. … Ever. To the point that she thinks that seeing a psychologist is totally separate from her work as an agent. It is _completely_ personal to her, not professional at all, to the point that her argument against being evaluated—despite the fact that she is enhanced—is that she is an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. 

This suggests that agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. do not see shrinks, _ever_ (or at least that it’s not mandatory to do so for their work). Now, if they _are_ evaluated for whatever reason, what does that look like? 

> **Andrew Garner** : I haven't worked with S.H.I.E.L.D. in a long while. I moved on for a reason. If I do this I have conditions. No observation, no monitoring, other than what's deemed medically necessary. My sessions with her are in private. My evaluation won't be. She gets a copy. My duty is to her, not S.H.I.E.L.D.  
>  **Melinda May** : Like I said, it's a different S.H.I.E.L.D.  
> 

This exchange indicates that Garner’s moral or ideological disagreement with the way Fury’s S.H.I.E.L.D. approached psychological assessments was the lack of privacy, and the fact that the assessments were geared for the best interests of S.H.I.E.L.D., rather than the person under review. (In this chapter I suggest that this is what happened to Steve: they ignored the obvious red flags that went up during his evaluation because they didn’t want to bench Captain America.) At the end of the episode, Garner says that nothing about S.H.I.E.L.D. has really changed after all, despite May’s claim. 

(This in turn leads me to wonder about the psychological assessment done on Tony in IM2. At minimum, if SOP is to have an _outside_ psychologist evaluate a threat/potential agent, who _really_ wrote that report that is generally ascribed to Natasha? Did S.H.I.E.L.D. have preliminary rounds of evaluation before bringing in someone actually qualified? And on that note…)

> **Jemma Simmons** : So, it might be wise to do a pharmacological evaluation. Dulling her emotions could lessen the destructiveness of her powers, a—a stopgap measure.  
>  **Andrew Garner** : Should probably meet her before writing a prescription.

This is just terrifying. Again, one must think back to Natasha straight-up stabbing god-knows-what drug into Tony’s neck without his prior knowledge or any form of consent, “for his own good.” That too, Fury pointed out, was only a “stopgap measure” to slow the palladium poisoning… which I guess makes it morally acceptable and more important than informed consent? It wasn’t exactly an imminent threat; they did have time to discuss it with Tony. I guess it’s just that they didn’t want to give him the opportunity to refuse on any grounds.

Again. Terrifying.

•

The Avengers Corporation 

I originally misread the address on the package Steve sent Tony at the end of the movie as “Avengers Corporation/ATTN: Tony Stark” and ran with it before taking another look and seeing the more predictable “Avengers Compound” instead. In the interim, however, I realized that—from a taxes/charitable donations/we-are-totally-not-Tony’s-private-army standpoint, among others—it actually makes perfect sense for the Avengers to be incorporated. Otherwise the post-S.H.I.E.L.D. Avengers would legally be the business of S.I., or of Tony himself, if not any actual government agency, and I can’t imagine either Tony or Pepper would be thrilled about the Avengers’ buck legally stopping with either of them (even if it does seem to unofficially fall to Tony). 

This would explain, as far as I’m concerned, how the hell the Avengers have remained operational post-S.H.I.E.L.D.

The only other alternative is that they were all independent agents. I seriously doubt nobody has sued them once in the 2+ years since S.H.I.E.L.D. tanked (for property damages at the very least), so how have they not spent half their time in individual court proceedings/some sort of pre-trial detention/immigration hold? Answer: they were acting as agents of the Avengers, Co., so the company was taking the legal brunt.

That would also help explain how in god’s name Steve and the others had no idea how far against them public opinion had been turning in the wake of Sokovia and the lead-up to Lagos, and how Tony was the only person who knew about the upcoming Accords. (I mean, the others _should_ have given more of a crap and looked it up themselves, but if Tony is the designated agent for the Avengers then only he would need to be officially contacted by anyone about upcoming legal action against the Avengers.) 

•

The Quinjet

Quite frankly, I can only flail and guess at how much the quinjet is worth—especially considering the repulsors and the presumed arc reactor power source.

Setting those aside, I basically added up the values of some of its constituent parts via close-fitting real-world aircraft (Supersonic long-distance flight (ex. F-22 Raptor: $412 million); Large enough to transport troops, airdrop capability (ex. C17A Globemaster III: $328 million); Equipped for electronic warfare (ex. EA-18G Growler: $102 million); Full-range stealth ability (ex. B-2 Spirit: $2.4 billion); Tilt-repulsor/two repulsor engines (ex. V-22 Osprey (tiltrotor aircraft): $118 million)) because these features are compounding on each other in a single aircraft and that seems reasonable (??). This came out to $3.36 billion.

However, plus the cost of the repulsor engines and the arc reactor? I don’t even know. (And if we count the possibility of an installed A.I., like JARVIS in AOU? I'd just have to throw in the towel.) They seem so far advanced that I decided to add another $1 billion on to the value of the quinjet to account for them, bringing its total value to $4.36 billion. Talk about grand theft auto. (Yes, I know that's not the crime for aircraft theft. I have a _massive_ list of Team Cap's crimes over here...!)

(Is there anyone reading this with actual industry know-how who can help me out with a more accurate value estimate? I’d love to hear your thoughts on the matter.)

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And once again: Despite all the ideas and planning I have done for this fic, I have finally had to admit I just don’t have the time to write it all. So **let me know what you want to see most**!


End file.
